


Apocalypse: Sanctuary

by TazzyTypes



Series: Apocalypse [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Probably going to be close to 40 chapters if not more, Romance, Slow Burn, like... really long, long fic, the whole shebang, we're in this for the long haul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 93,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TazzyTypes/pseuds/TazzyTypes
Summary: The end of the world... Emily had thought about the possibility, but she had never in her wildest dreams imagined she would live to see it. Saved by the Cooperative and taken to Outpost 3 by the sponsorship of a wealthy benefactor, she can’t help but wonder if it would have been a kinder fate to have died in the blasts.For now, her only problem is sharing a name with a fellow purple, a fate even the end of the world couldn’t remedy. She hopes it stays that way, but a post-apocalyptic world is never kind.
Relationships: Michael Langdon & Reader, Michael Langdon & You, Michael Langdon/Original Character(s), Michael Langdon/Original Female Character(s), Michael Langdon/Reader, Michael Langdon/You
Series: Apocalypse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772392
Comments: 64
Kudos: 112





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Tazzy here! It's been a while since I've written and posted fanfiction so please let me know what you think. Trust me when I say even the smallest comment and like makes my day. AO3 is a new platform to me and I'm still trying to figure out how to use it so please be patient with me as I figure it out.  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy what I write.

Fists banged against the glass shield that had settled into place before her, knuckles white as paper. She might have been crying. Honestly, she felt detached from her own body — a ghost. All she could hear was the overwhelming silence of whatever room she had been thrown into and the echo of her fists hitting the glass.  


“What about you?” She screamed at the person who stood on the other side of the glass, voice cracking and trembling, “You’re going to die!”  


The world was shifting around her, head light and heart pounding. She stared at the man before her, dressed to the nines in a black suit. At first, she had been angry at him, viewed him as the enemy. What was she supposed to think? He and a SWAT team had barged into her home and thrown her into the back of an armored car.  


How things could change in the matter of a day.  


“You’ll find the things you’ve requested in your assigned room,” He told her, voice even and calm. The only sign of fear was in the bead of sweat falling down a dark brow. “Should the others not reach you, you have enough food to last you for at least twenty years or more.”  


Panic set in, she began gasping. The man had been her handler for the past day. He hadn’t given her his name.  


“ _Complimentary,_ ” he had said. He liked that word a lot. She was only given the vaguest idea of why she was here. The world was ending. Revelations had come and Emily was one of the chosen few to survive.  


When he looked upon her, he felt pity. Pulled from the east coast to the west, their only option was to transport her directly to the bunker. His pity could only go so far… she got to live, after all.  


He continued as calmly as one could when faced with immediate and horrible death, “The bunker is designed to withstand 2,000 feet of impact and could withstand the heat of the sun should things not go according to plan.”  


This all felt like a dream. Nuclear war… of course, it would be nuclear war. Anger was set ablaze in her belly. Those men at the seats of power. The corrupt scum that saw dollar signs and their own pride before they saw people. Selfish, irredeemable—  


A thick metal door began to close on top of the glass one that separated her from her companion. It eclipsed the only light she had from the outside world.  


“No,” She begged, choking on the frog in her throat, “no, no, no, no, no, no—”  


She yelped as a blast of air hit her from behind, hands going over her head as she quickly curled into a ball. When she finally looked up she could only see a sliver of light. Her eyes nearly bulged from her head as the clear afternoon sky was taken up in colors of red and orange. It looked like blood was striking into her prison. It was but an instant, but it would be burned into her mind until the day she died.  


Then her world was cast into shadow.  


Trembling and sniveling, Emily pulled out her phone. Pushing short and curly brown hair out of her eyes, she turned it on and cast it upon the room she was in. It was small and square with dark wood walls.  


On hands and knees, she began searching. The man had pressed something into her hands before pushing her in here, causing her to stumble and drop whatever it was in the process. It wasn’t a hard or long search, finding it in the matter of a few seconds. A piece of paper had fluttered to the corner of the room, in pen there was a hastily written script which was slightly smudged.  


“ _Room 6 _” it read, accompanied by an iron key taped below.  
__

__Carefully, she took the paper in her hand and flipped it over, doing her best to keep the light steady enough to see. A picture of a sunny day was on the other side, blue skies with clouds that reminded her of those she had seen in oil paintings. The light shook even more as a low whine left her mouth, hot, salty tears falling down her face. Sobs turned into screams, partly out of fear and partly out of rage but either way deafening. The way the walls were formed made it sound like a hundred people were screaming into her ear but she couldn’t stop. It felt like her body was caving into itself, back arching as she curled against the floor wishing for it all to be a dream. She wanted to ram her head into the floor until she was forced to wake up.  
_ _

__Finally, her voice went raw and she couldn’t cry another tear. Everything was numb and heavy. Slowly, she rose to her feet, pocketing the picture and casting the light onto the rest of her surroundings. On one half of the room sat a control pad with numbers and familiar symbols — elevator keys. There were only a few floors to choose from, three or four. She pressed a level with a star etched beside it.  
_ _

__It didn’t light up, didn’t make a sound. Part of her was afraid it was busted and she’d spend the rest of her life in this small chamber like a vestal virgin sentenced to death to retain the balance.  
_ _

__“Damnit!” she muttered, slamming a fist into the wall.  
_ _

__“Damnit!” She shouted, voice like an old crone as she kicked out in frustration. The elevator lurched, making her fall back and land painfully on her back with a grunt. She could hear mechanical whirring under her ear. Another lurch caused her to sit up and brace herself for a quick descent down a shaft possibly a mile deep. Instead, she was surprised by a slow descent.  
_ _

__It felt like a horror movie, but after being kidnapped and watching the world end right before her eyes she had grown accustomed to the feeling. Didn’t convince her heart to stop pounding in her ears, however… or her palms from being covered in a cold sweat. Why couldn’t they at least install lights?  
_ _

__She emerged at the bottom floor with caution and with her light hidden away. Just because that man said she was welcome didn’t mean she was. That’s how cults worked, right? What if she was a doomsday sacrifice? Or was it more like Cloverfield Lane?  
_ _

__Hands out to feel for her surroundings, Emily turned her head this way and that to listen for any sounds of life. The silence, as before, was deafening. Her ears couldn’t stand it, ringing ever slightly in revolt.  
_ _

__Once she was certain of her solitude, she once again turned on the flashlight on her phone. It was an underground mansion with innumerable hallways and elaborate stairwells one would expect to see in a movie. She couldn’t even begin to wonder where room 6 was. It took all her brainpower to remember how to get back to the elevator. Every step brought her further and further into an unending maze.  
_ _

__A rumbling beneath her feet made her pause. Were the bombs really that close? Would the walls cave in around her? She pushed herself forward until another, more intense shaking made her stop. Her body vibrated with anxiety and it took all her control not to fall into a panic attack.  
_ _

__“Keep moving,” she told herself, a mantra to get her to focus on anything other than what was happening up above and keep her legs from turning to stone, “keep moving.”  
_ _

__Another shake, strong enough to make her curl up on the floor with her hands over her head, made dust fall from the ceiling and bits of paint to the floor in front of her. Panic rose in her belly and she covered her mouth to keep herself from being sick. A chime made her yelp, her phone buzzing in her hand. Then another chime, then another. Her phone sounded like it was screaming, multiple chimes and dings echoing through the halls.  
_ _

__Something had returned the signal to her phone, but when she looked at her lock screen she really wished it hadn’t. Final messages poured in from her friends — shock, followed by fear and finally resignation. She cried as she got messages from people she hadn’t heard from in years, apologizing for wrongs and reminding her of their love. A message popped up saying her voice-mail was full, asking her if it wanted to play what she missed.  
_ _

__Emily threw her phone to the side as the messages began to play, not even realizing she had hit the button to do so. There was screaming, there was crying, there was begging for salvation. She couldn’t stand it, hands going to cover her ears to block out the world. The earth shook again and again, bombs falling somewhere above her head. All those people-- all the people she cared about were gone.  
_ _

__“It’s not real,” She muttered, voice catching as she rocked back and forth, “it’s not— it can’t—”  
_ _

__The worst part of this wasn’t that everything was gone. It was that she was alone._ _


	2. Last Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Chapter 1! I hope you guys enjoy it. I loved reading your comments and every kudos made me more excited to keep writing.  
> 

Emily shifted in her seat, head rebelling after spending a week in the dim light of candles which cast everything in an orange hue and made the shadows dance on the walls. Even her large circular glasses did nothing to ease her sight… it was a wonder she wasn’t already legally blind. Either way, she had the mother of all headaches. 

The constant fires always left E uncomfortably hot and the layers upon layers they were forced to dress didn’t help. First thing the wardens did when they arrived was strip her down and burn every shred of fabric… her favorite shirt nothing but ash. Clothing standards were non-negotiable. Evening wear on the left side of the armoire. Don’t mistake it for your daily clothes or you won’t receive dinner. Cocktails before-hand at 6:30 sharp. Lucky for Emily, she was always early for everything and had yet to find out what the punishment was for that particular faux-pas. She wished nothing but to grab the t-shirt and shorts she had arrived in just to find some relief.

_“Be careful what you wish for,”_ Her mother had always told her. 

At first, she had been relieved when the others arrived. Now she had to wonder if she would have been better off on her own… the supplies she had counted in storage would certainly have lasted longer. Small little cubes with all the nutrients they needed. They probably would have been better with non-perishables, but she doubted the wardens would risk a venture outside to hunt for some… not like they would be able to eat it, anyway.

Another stabbing pain pulsed at her temples, hands going to smooth it out as she listened to the chattering around her that sounded more like white noise than coherent sentences. Waiting out the apocalypse in solidarity would have driven her insane, humans being the social creatures they were. However, she doubted any of them would survive the end of the world with their sanity intact. 

Not that one could guess it was the end of the world by the conversations of her fellow residents, most of them rich and most of the snobby. Gallant and Coco were thick as thieves… their personalities almost comically matching that of Regina George from Mean Girls. Evie, Gallant’s washed-up film star of a grandmother was almost repulsively republican — so homophobic and racist that most of the residents hoped she’d have a heart attack and die. The Stevens, a mother and son pair along with the son’s boyfriend, were tolerable. Andre liked to throw shade, but he was balanced by his witty counterpart, Stu. 

She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she thought of their earlier conversation.

_“It’s like Satan’s Spotify playlist,” Stu had joked in response to Gallants endless complaining, making Andre nearly choke on the water he had been drinking._

_“For the amount of times I’ve been told I’m in league with the devil, I’d have expected him to have better taste.” Emily had joked in return._

_Stu laughed and Andre only sighed, “don’t even get me started on the clothes.”_

_“Well at least you don’t have to wear a corset,” Coco had snipped, hand going up to pat at her hair in an attempt to keep it in place._

_Emily tugged at her own, something poking her in her stomach, “These are not historically accurate.”_

_“Let me guess,” Stu said, gesturing to her glasses, “history major?”_

_“Insomniac.”_

The pounding returned to her head and she leaned on the table, pressing at her temples with the hope of some relief. Maybe she could ask a Grey to get her some ice… she doubted Venable had a stash of ibuprofen in the reserves. 

It had been 14 days since they had gotten here. 3 of which she had spent on her own, wandering the halls with a candelabra like a damsel from a Victorian novel. She tugged at the high collar of her shirt. Whoever designed this hole in the ground was determined to have them living in a corset-laced wet dream. 

“Are you okay?” The girl beside her asked, a gentle hand placed on Emily’s arm. She had just arrived at the outpost, 2 weeks after the bombs dropped, with a boy around the same age. They had barely been able to introduce themselves before Venable cut in, ringing a bell obnoxiously to usher them to dinner. 

The few words the pair had said still haunted her. 

_“It’s all gone,” The brown-haired boy had told them at Gallant’s insistence, lips pressed into a thin line as he tried not the let the emotions that came with those words to overwhelm him._

_“Everything,” The girl echoed, voice hollow._

_Gallant fell back as if he had been shot, panic threatening to overtake his lungs after it was done squeezing the life out of his heart._

_“What…” Emily had stuttered out, trying to calm herself, “What did it look like?”_

_Andre’s voice had cracked and spat out like venom, “who cares about what it looks like?”_

_Stu had placed a hand on his lover's shoulder. His brows were furrowed and there was a slight shake that came over his body. Andre curled into him, Stu wrapping his arms around him as if he could somehow shield the man from the world._

_Her anxiety spread through her like a wildfire, the attempted facade of strength cracking, “It matters because it could tell us how fucked we are!”_

_“We’re well past fucked!” Coco had snapped._

_The girl with ebony hair focused on Emily, eyes welling with emotion she all too well understood._

_“No sun…” She said, forcing the words from her mouth, “just green… smog.”_

_“Does that mean anything to you?” Stu had asked her, eyes betraying his own fears._

_“Hiroshima happened in the… 50s? Chernobyl happened in the 80s,” Emily began to say, too in her thoughts to notice the side-eyed stares of her companions, “and that was still radioactive before it was radioactive… again.”_

_The comment seemed to stir something in the new girl’s head, “I heard about that… people were able to take trips last year… once in a lifetime opportunity.”_

_Coco scoffed, “so is dying.”_

_“Wait, so like… this can go away?” Gallant asked._

_The girl looked to Emily, “People were living on Hiroshima before all this.”_

_“Possibly,” Emily mused, “Then again, we’d have to multiply that incident by… well, a lot.”_

_“We’d have to find out where and how many bombs were dropped.” The girl added, “as well as the area affected by it.”_

_Coco frowned, still more focused on her hair than the literal end of the world, “could you stop talking like that? You’re seriously freaking me out.”_

_“We’re all freaking out,” Dinah snipped._

“Just tired,” Emily reassured the girl, leaning back in her chair. She realized she had yet to ask the girl her name, but the Grey’s entered with their meal before she could — one Grey for each purple at the table. The large black plates were almost amusingly large in comparison to the singular small cube that sat at its center. 

A full table-set was spread out before them, silver soup spoons, teaspoons, knives, and a salad fork mocking them every day. They stood out against the dark wood and reminded them that they were doomed to a life of tasteless jello for the rest of their lives. Emily finally understood how her pets felt, fed the same food day in and day out… at least she had bothered to change up the flavor. Her body rebelled against her after the third day, gagging whenever she brought the cube anywhere near her mouth. A few days of starvation quickly rectified the situation and greatly amused her jailer who was all too happy to put the food back from whence it came.

Venable chose the seating arrangements, naturally. Emily was sat beside the two new arrivals, positioned as far from the woman as possible. It was an arrangement neither of them minded. Emily didn’t hold her tongue in moments such as these and she didn’t like placing her wellbeing in the hands of another. Venable expected complete and total control over her residents, enforcing strict standards of order that were almost as tight as her hair, tightly pulled together in a double french twist at the back of her head. Emily was the stray hair that wouldn’t lay flat no matter what she did. 

The new arrivals stared at their plates as the Greys placed the cubes before them, sending each other confused glances and waiting to see what the rest of them did. It hardly looked appetizing, brown and having a texture reminiscent of a health-nut’s chia-seed protein bar.

Emily poked at her own food for good measure, feeling her throat clench at the mere thought of eating again. It didn’t listen no matter how many times she tried to reason with it. You’d think the body would behave and finally realize that this was as good as things would get.

Gallant turned towards the girl to his left, “Don’t be too disappointed.”

“Darling,” Evie sighed from the other side of the table, spreading a napkin across her lap, “You don’t know what disappointment is until you’ve slept with Yul Brynner.”

The mere thought of the old woman having sex was enough to make Emily’s lips curl in disgust… maybe she didn’t need to eat after all. For once Dinah was amused by the old crone, chuckling as she cut apart her cube like it was a five-course meal instead of the science project of Elon Musk. 

“I want to die,” She could hear Gallant mutter a few seats over, head in his hands as he contemplated his decision to bring his nana along on whatever this adventure was. 

Dinah was quick to explain the cubes to the new pair, “The cube on your plate contains every vitamin our body needs…”

Across from Emily, Coco ungracefully shoved the entire cube into her mouth with one fell swoop, cheeks puffing out. Dinah continued to speak, pretending to have not seen Coco, words coming out rushed, “…or so they tell us.”

“Whether or not it aids in our caloric intake is up in the air,” Emily added, following the woman’s lead and gently cutting into the cube. 

“The fewer calories the better!” Evie proclaimed from down the table, waving her fork in the air to accentuate her statement.

“Until you become a skeleton.”

Emily had learned from Dinah’s example to take small bites, savor it. She hoped it would fool her body into thinking it was eating more. Either way, her stomach still growled and she was grateful to her handler for taking her to Chick-Fil-A on their way to the Outpost. The mere thought of that last meal made her mouth water.

Coco’s silverware clattered onto her plate as she closed her eyes and whined, “I’m still hungry… I am so tired of the hunger.”

A fist to the table made Emily jump, dropping her own silverware in turn. The girl next to her looked to the other residents as Coco stood up abruptly, letting her chair screech against the floor as it was thrown back. She looked to Emily and all she could do was offer a half-hearted shrug that said, _“same shit as usual.”_

… God, she missed John Mulaney. 

“Fuck! This! Bullshit!” Coco continued, “With all the thought that went into this they don’t have a _single_ bag of _Pirate’s Booty_ in the pantry?”

Evie sat back as if watching a soap opera while the rest of the residents braced themselves for another tantrum. Coco raved on, unaware of the sudden looming figures coming up behind her, “For a hundred _million_ dollars a ticket, I expect goddamn Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen cooking us _real_ food!”

Then she stopped, a tap of a cane on the floor signaling the arrival of Venable, Miss Mead on her heels like an obedient dog. They braced themselves for another, self riotous lecture on appreciating what they had as if none of them mourned for what was. Slowly, head bowed and aware of her impending doom, Coco turned. 

The slap rang in everyone’s ears, causing a collective gasp to fill the room. The brown-haired boy beside Coco caught her as she fell back, her hand going instantly to her cheek. As she stood once more she took it away and examined it. Emily could see the barest hint of blood on the blonde’s fingers. A growl threatened to rise in her throat and her lips curled in a disgusted snarl.

It was hard to keep calm as she addressed the woman donned in black, “we’re all _adults_ here. We can use our words… I hope. At least _some_ of us have mastered that much.”

Venable turned to her. The black-haired girl beside her shifted uncomfortably. One could cut the tension between the two women with a knife. 

Finally, Venable pulled her eyes away and turned her focus to the spoiled girl before her, her hand resting back on the cane she always carried, “Let me be very clear so there will be _no_ misunderstanding. We have enough nutrition to last for the next _18 months_ and if our situation doesn’t improve, you can count on less and less.”

Slowly, Coco sat. Shaking hands pulled away from her cheek as she reached for the chair. She was so scared that her movements were stiff. Yes, she had been yelled at before. God knows she was a stubborn woman with a temper, but no one had ever slapped her before.

Venable retreated into the only exit of the room, slithering back into the shadows. Venable’s tone bordered on the overly-theatric, playing the part of a woman burdened by knowledge she dare not speak lest it disrupts the peace. 

“You could have told us that from the very beginning.” Emily blurted out.

The woman didn’t even bother to look at her as her lips curled into a mocking smile. When she finally turned to Emily, her tone was thick with condescension, “and cause _unnecessary_ panic?”

“You know what they say about communication and relationships.” 

“ _Situation_ ?” Gallant asked, waving a hand to get their attention, “What is our _situation_?”

Miss Mead looked to her boss whose face glimmered with uncertainty and surprise, but only for a moment. Venable was debating whether or not to tell the truth or keep them in the constant state of unknowing, easy to control. If she were still in college, Emily could have written an essay on the ways Venable reminded her of the worst sort of people in their history books. 

“We had a perimeter alert this morning,” She finally told them, less than pleased with the fact the words were leaving her mouth at all, “Something penetrated the grounds. It was a carrier pigeon delivering a message from our benefactors.”

Coco gasped, “Wait! A pigeon! Can we eat it?”

Emily sighed and leaned on the table, resisting the urge to hand her head in her hands. This place was going to be migraine city the moment she tapered off her medication.

Miss Mead’s tone echoed her feelings, brows scrunching at the pure idiocy of the question.

“It was _contaminated_ by the _fallout_.”

Her response didn’t phase Evie, who made it abundantly clear she had never made a meal for herself in her entire life, “Can we _boil_ it?”

Venable reached into her pockets and pulled out a small sliver of paper and began to read, “There are no more governments. Only rotting mounds of corpses, too many to bury.”

Emily’s hands fell to her lap and curled into fists until she could feel her fingernails embed themselves into the flesh of her palms. All she could hear were the voice-mails, each and every last plead for life. She could still hear her brother’s voice, cracking in a way she hadn’t heard since their grandmother’s funeral. It was etched into her brain to the last breath. To his last breath, he took his role as an older sibling seriously, trying to soothe her fears instead of his own.

_“I don’t want to die. God, I don’t want to—”_

Venable continued reading, “Starving people kill for a piece of bread.”

_“I love you… I… You were… are a good sister.”_

“Three outposts have been overrun.” Venable’s voice droned on, voice cracking ever slightly as she reached the end of the letter, “We are the last vestiges of civilized life on the planet.”

_“I… I know you would have made a difference… I wish I could have seen the life you would have created.”_

Venable looked to them all as she read the last line, “be vigilant.”

Emily was pulled from her thoughts by a squeeze to her hand, instinctively pulling it back until she realized a hand covering her own. When Emily met the ebony-haired girl’s gaze she offered a reassuring smile, Emily nodded in a small message of thanks before brushing away the single tear which had begun to roll down her cheeks. 

“Everything we know is gone,” Mead summarized, eyes blank. It was nice to see that even the Warden and Venable felt fear. Made them feel… human.

“In _two_ _weeks_?”, Andre shook his head, staring blankly at his hands, “That’s all it took?”

In a rare show of empathy, Gallant reached out and squeezed the man’s hands. Emily noted the way Stu watched the interaction, eyes watching the hands as if it were a snake slithering in his direction.

“They made you think the system was a rock,” Mead explained, standing at attention with her hands locked together in front of her, “It was a water balloon. One prick of the needle and —”

She made a popping noise, “that’s all it took.”

It wasn’t as if Emily was surprised. One of the first things she learned in a college psychology class was that the only reason the world didn’t fall into chaos was due to people putting faith in a system that would protect them… conventional. The bombs had scattered them, left them weak to the chaos that ensued. It reminded her of the way roaches scattered when sprayed with Raid. Lawlessness was the antithesis of reason, mob mentality was evidence enough of that. It was textbook horror.

“We will only survive if we follow the rules,” Venable emphasized.

Emily scoffed. Some of Venable’s rules she understood while others were a blatant overreaching of power. She could understand the “no sex” rule to a degree. Copulation could result in the creation of new life which they had no means to sustain, but even the Victorians had condoms and you couldn’t walk into a 7-Eleven without finding a rack of Plan B. Not to mention half the residents were gay which made her rules pointless. 

“Rules are the _basis_ of order,” Venable said, clearly addressing her despite staring at the wall above them, “unless you find yourself to be above the rules? Too _special_ for them to apply?”

She hadn’t a moment to voice her thoughts, quickly distracted by the army of wardens that quickly began to fill the room. They all watched with bated breath as The Fist bent down to whisper in Mead’s ear, her lip twitching and eyes flitting to the ground as she gave the other woman her full attention.

“There’s a problem.”

Those 3 words were enough to break Venable’s gloating, head snapping to the side like Coco’s had a moment ago. They all watched the pair, unsure of who to keep a better watch on — Venable or Mead.

“We’ve detected a spike in the background radiation, centered in this room,” Mead informed her boss.

Gallant was quick to point fingers to the new pair, whatever empathy he had shown with Andre gone like the wind as he moved from them as if they had the plague, “It’s them! They just came from the outside!”

“No!” The girl exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously and sitting forward in her chair, knuckles white around the wooden arms, “No! We were checked when we got here! We’re clean!”

She looked to Emily for aid, brown eyes wide and pupils dilated. Her eyes glimmered with confusion and panic, searching for an unspoken question. Emily’s brows knitted and she bit her lip, eyes flickering between the girl before her and the wardens preparing a device that looked like a microphone attached to a larger box.

“No,” the boy echoed, “we went through decontamination.”

His eyes also went to Emily as he continued to speak, begging for her to understand, “we were cleared.”

Emily opened her mouth but could find nothing to reassure them. Mead addressed the room before Emily could utter a word. “Place your hands on the table… and _don’t._ _Move_.”

Shaking her head at the girl, Emily did as she was told. This hadn’t happened before. She didn’t know what to expect. As the device clicked from her left, she edged her pinky towards her knife. It wasn’t sharp. It didn’t have to be sharp to cut through jello. With enough pressure, it could cut through skin. The rest of the room faded away as she kept her eyes on The Fists' hands, a second device in her hands as well. Emily’s heart hammered with each step closer.

“Radioactive contamination,” Mead spoke, devices crinkling like static as they hovered over each person, “is a grave risk to our _entire_ community.”

The Fist, a giant of a woman with blonde hair pulled back from her face, towered above Emily when she was standing. Sitting down made her feel like a child in the presence of a giant. She held her breath as she felt the device get closer, clicking sounds falling silent as soon as it came above her hand. The Fist repeated the motion a few times more, making Emily’s heart go haywire in her chest, before moving on to the new arrival next to her, the clicking resuming once more.

“The clean rule is there to protect all of us,” Mead continued, now going over the boy who sat stiff as a board, eyes following the woman’s every move, “A _single_ stray gamma particle can cause skin lesions. Your DNA breaks apart, your body disintegrates. You’ll _wish_ you died in the blast.”

The residents weren’t sure what to make of her speech. It wasn’t as if any of them graduated with a degree in radiology. They had learned it in high-school, sure, but that was ages ago… before there was colored TV for some of them. 

“But someone here decided,” Mead went on, circling the table for a second round of testing, “that their _individual needs_ were more important.”

Emily tensed once more as the stick was waved around her, Mead pausing momentarily to look down at the box she held in her hand to see if it had somehow turned off. Finding nothing, she continued. “Someone went outside. Touched something _dirty_.”

The room was holding their breaths. They all knew they were innocent, but didn’t trust their companions as far as they could throw them. Their gaze followed the device, then to the person next to them, then to the person in front of them. They searched for a sign of guilt. It was easier to point fingers when someone looked shifty. 

“Makes me sick to think that this person,” Mead spit as she made it to gallant, “to risk contaminating all—”

A wild crackling filled the room. They all jumped in their seats, eyes focusing on the hairdresser. Emily’s heart leapt into her throat, paralyzed as the vultures began circling, donned in leather and stronger than any of them could hope to be.

“No,” The man said after a moment, shaking his finger as he looked to the Wardens, “nononono. That’s a mistake because the _only_ thing I’ve touched is Coco’s hair.”

The Fist stood over Coco and shook her head. Mead gave the final order, voice lacking any pity, “she’s clean. You’re dirty.

The wardens grabbed at Gallant, claws latching onto him as he began to struggle.

“No!” He cried, “this is impossible! That machine is wrong!”

Fingers dug into his shoulder and Gallant cried out in pain, dragged to his feet and across the floor. The warden closest to him placed him in a choke-hold, Gallant letting out a fearful sob as he clawed at the man’s arm. Evie stood, chair screeching across the floor as she reached out towards her grandson with trembling hands.

“This is outrageous! Stop! Please, stop! Bring him back!”

Coco gasped and let out a cry, hands moving to cover her face as her eyes welled with tears. The girl beside Emily looked between herself and the boy in front of her, chest rising and falling rapidly as she began to hyperventilate.

Gallant scream pierced the air, “Evie!”

The crackling filled the room once more. In their panic, they had failed to realize Mead making her way towards Andre and Stu. The couple could only stare at each other, the seconds dragging on like hours.

“No way!” Stu chanted, refusing to look away from Andre, “No! No way!”

“No,” Andre sobbed, reaching out towards the man and trying to pry him from the grasp of the warden pulling him away. He was thrown away with a shove.

“Get your hands off me!” Stu screamed, another warden now going to carry him by his feet.

Mead’s voice rang out from the chaos, followed swiftly by the marching of footsteps.

“Take them to the decontamination room!”

They could hear the groans of their fellow residents echoing down the hall. The sounds resonated long after the steel doors had closed.

Emily reached out for the hand of the girl next to her. Her face was frozen in a gasp, eyes wide with terror. Her hand rested on hers which still sat on the table. She squeezed back and held on for dear life.

* * *

For once the saloon was quiet. Evie had gone to bed. Emily currently sat next to a crying Andre, Dinah opposite her. He hadn’t been able to stop crying since dinner, now unable to do more than hiccup.

“How could he have been contaminated,” He sobbed, a horrible epiphany crossing his mind as he turned to Emily, “do you think they—?

Emily gave him a look, “Did you forget Gallant’s little hand-squeeze during dinner? He was coming on to you, not Stu.”

Andre had a fleeting smile before anxiety overtook him once more.

“What we need to do now,” Dinah said, running a hand up and down her son’s back, “is make sure Stu comes back safe.”

Her words were less than comforting, Andre shoving away her arm and staring at her with an emotion Emily couldn’t quite place… somewhere between distress and anger.

“Why wouldn’t he be safe?” he demanded, looking to the brunette when his mother offered no response. Emily opened her mouth, hoping something would pop into her head, but she was at a loss for words. She couldn’t reassure him of anything. It would be a lie.

The man scoffed, stepping back and shaking his head, “I can’t believe you.”

He turned on his heels, breath hitching once more as another fit of sobs threatened to take over him. Why Stu? Why not them? Of all the residents Stu was the least deserving of—

Emily rose, hand held out to stop him, “Andre—”

A gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. Dinah took a step around her, hand trailing down her purple-clothed arm until she held her hand, the other coming to rest on top of it.

“Let me talk to him,” the woman tried to reassure, the events clearly have shaken her as much as Stu. 

Emily pressed her lips together and nodded, pulling back and watching the woman hurry towards her son, heels clicking down the hall. The door clanged shut behind her and silence filled the room.

… but only for a moment.

“What’s going to happen to me if they find out Gallant is —” Coco started to ramble, “I mean I _was_ the only reason he was here in the first place.”

“You were clean,” The brown-haired boy pointed out, face twisting in confusion.

“Well, I know that!” Coco exclaimed, turning on the couch to face him, “but who’s to say there won’t be a _second_ investigation. I mean there had to be a _reason_ they were tainted.”

She went quiet for a moment, hands held out in front of her as if she was having a revelation, “oh my gosh! If they kill Gallant who’s going to do my hair?”

Emily sighed and sat next to the new girl who was wringing her hands and staring into the fire. 

“I never did ask your names,” Emily noted, looking to the girl and the boy.

“Timothy,” He said with a nod of his head.

The girl was pulled from her thoughts, turning from the fire and to the people behind her, “Emily.”

Emily chuckled, “You’re joking.”

“What?”

“It’s the end of the world and I can’ escape the fate of having a basic girl name.”

A smile curled at the other Emily’s lips, then a laugh, “really?”

Emily extended a hand, “Hi, Emily. I’m Emily.”

“There’s two of you now?” Coco groaned.

“I was named after my grandmother,” The other Emily said, taking her hand and giving it a shake, “you?”

“My parents looked in a baby book and picked a ‘less common’ girl name. 21 years later and there’s at least three Emily’s in each one of my classes.” 

“God, this is going to be confusing,” Coco sighed, pressing her fingers to her nose in a praying motion, “Oh! I know! Emily 1 and Emily 2… no... That’s too wordy.”

“Middle names?” Timothy asked.

“No way in hell,” The two replied.

“I can always go by ‘Em’,” she said, “god knows I’m used to it by now.”

“M?” Coco asked, “that’s original.”

“Well, we can’t all be named after a brand of cereal.”

“I was named after Coco Chanel!” she snapped, turning to Timothy with crocodile tears, “You get it, right?”

“…yeah?” he answered, an eyebrow quirking up in confusion, “The clothing brand.”

He looked to the two Emily’s as he spoke like he was part of some hidden camera show. The two could only laugh and shake their heads as he was quickly rounded into another one of Coco’s monologues.

“My parents named me Coco because they knew I was destined to make it big. So it was only natural that I…”

Timothy looked ready to face nuclear winter. His guilt over the previous dinner altercations made him feel guilty for wanting to run away, but the boy always had a hard time saying, “no.” The Emily’s watched on, sparing him pity-filled glances when he looked to them for help.

“So did you pay your way in here or are you here for your _superior_ genetics?” Emily asked. 

“Genetics,” Emily… Em replied, “I was supposed to be on the east coast but someone paid for me to be transported all the way out here.”

“Who?”

She shrugged, “no idea. Some rich snob wanted their dog to go with them… at least that’s what Venable tells me.”

“I’d hardly call her a _trustful_ resource.”

Em laughed, “That we can agree on.”

“How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“More than we have rations for,” Em sighed, reaching for a glass of water, “Fallout could last up to five years and we’ve talked about Chernobyl… but nothing on this scale has ever been recorded.”

Emily stared blankly ahead and nodded, trying to recall all she had learned about the matter in school, “we could be here for 30 years… maybe more.”

“Sorry,” Em offered, “anyone here can tell you — I’m not one to speak to for optimism or reassurance.”

“No,” The other girl shook her head, “I’d rather blatant honestly than pretty lies.”

“If we had anything more than water I’d toast to that.”

Emily laughed and shook her head. She reached for a glass of her own and held it up.

“Let’s toast anyway.”

Em smiled and leaned her glass forward, a dull clinking sound filling the air. 

“What were you doing?” Em asked, leaning back and taking a sip of water, “before the bombs hit?”

“Protesting. It sounds minuscule now… climate change, minimum wage.”

“Everything is minuscule in the presence of death.”

“Poetic.”

“I sure hope so,” Em jested, “or all the money I wasted on an English Major was worthless.”

Emily laughed, “Is that what you were doing before the bomb’s dropped?”

“Nah… I was at home… enjoying summer. I was working on our campus’ literary magazine and selling art prints online as a side-hustle.”

Em shook her head, silence sitting for a moment before Emily spoke.

“I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“I don’t think any of us do, but at least we’re not alone.”

“I wouldn’t call this particularly good company,” Emily admitted.

“It’s not,” Em blatantly admitted, earning a short laugh from her companion, “but you and timothy seem alright.”

“And you?”

“Well…” Em said, side eying Coco who was still avidly speaking without a sign of ever stopping, “I’m no influencer.”

Emily snorted and shook her head, “that may be for the best.”

* * *

“All I’m saying is Stu was boring and using up our food, and that lesions won’t work with my complexion.”

Em rolled her eyes and looked to Emily who once again sat beside her as Coco’s tirade went on. The blond-haired woman once again was patting at her hair like she was on the red carpet. They looked to Timothy across from them who just sat looking blankly ahead of him. Em smiled at shook her head, not able to blame the man for pretending he was anywhere else but here. If not for the mandatory cocktail hour and communal meals, Em would have stayed as far away from the others as possible.

Days had passed since Gallant and Stu had been forced into decontamination. Gallant refused to speak of the incident and… well… they knew where it got Stu. One would have liked to have said that Coco had shown some respect for the deceased, but the farthest she got was initial shock followed by contempt towards their fallen comrade.

“Fuck you,” Andre spat, murder in his eyes, “I hope they come for you next.”

“If they don’t,” Em noted, Coco’s eyes glaring into her own, “I will.”

She gaped at her, nose curling as her expression turned into one of disgust, “Is that a threat?”

“A promise.”

Emily gave her a look like a mother trying to get their child to behave among strangers.

It’s not worth it!” She hissed under her breath. Em was far too annoyed to pay her any mind. She could forgive selfishness and vanity, but her complete lack of sympathy for those in pain? It didn’t matter if it was genuine. All she had to do was shut up, give Andre space to grieve. 

Lucky for Coco, their jail-keepers arrived at the table before Em could follow out her threat. Venable’s cane sounded like the tik of a clock with each step she took, reminding the brunette of a horror story her friends and herself would tell around Halloween. 

“Nobody is coming for anyone,” Mead told them as they both rounded the table to their respective seats at the head of the table, “unless you break the rules.”

She looked to Em, “which includes murder.”

Em paused as she took a sip of water, raising a brow at Coco, “I never said anything about  _ murder _ .”

The older woman looked into her lap and shook her head, trying to hide the amused smile threatening to show on her face. Coco scoffed.

“This is harassment!”

“This is a difficult time for everyone,” Venable spoke, failing to address Coco’s claims, “as a  _ small _ consolation, we have a special treat.”

Em could smell the food before she could see it, the salt and the meat, she could taste it in her mouth without even touching it. She felt like a dog, smelling things with such detail she had never been able to notice before. It was incredible what desperation could do to the body. The whole table buzzed with excitement, grins brightening faces and hands going to silverware before the food could be set on the table.

Emily was unable to hide her shock, “no cubes tonight?”

Venable’s lips curled into a smile, the expression doing nothing to ease the woman’s continuously angry expression, “enjoy the  _ bonne bouche _ .”

Bowls clinked together, the Greys hurrying to place food on the table. 

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Yes,” Emily sighed beside her, looking over to Em with an expression of relieved joy. 

The brunette didn’t care. If she was being honest, she hadn’t exactly paid much attention to the woman’s words after she saw the soup on the food trolley. It was much like a cat seeing a bird at the window, green eyes widening and pupils dilating as if Em had found her true love. While her companions were much more graceful, at least attempting some decorum, Em quickly dug into the meal.

Her mother used to chide her for this as a child, sitting next to her brother at the dinner table and seeing who could finish first. She couldn't explain to the woman that she had to eat fast or else her brother would steal her dessert. Such things didn’t make sense to an adult, but a child’s reasoning was elaborate and honest. For a life so short, every little detail mattered.

Usually, she wasn’t a fan of stew. Something about the floating meat and murky broth didn’t sit right with her. Now she wondered why she didn’t enjoy the delicacy more often. The meat fell apart like well-buttered bread in her mouth, the broth warmed her from the inside out. She could feel it burning down her throat like a shot of Bourbon, somewhat painful but none the less satisfying. 

“You think bribing us with a hot meal’s just gonna’ to make everything okay?” Andre asked, voice sore with grief. A white handkerchief flourished with the wave of his hand. It had been somewhere on his person since Stu was pronounced dead. Em was too caught up in her hunger to realize the weight of his words or the sudden stillness of the girl beside her, an unspoken conversation between herself and Timothy. She would take the bribe happily if it meant being spared from the tasteless cube she had become accustomed to. It wouldn’t win her over, but only a fool refused something readily given with no strings attached.

By the time Emily swatted at Em’s arm the brunette had already finished most of the stew, the bottom of her bowl visible through the broth. She sent Emily an irritated glare, gesturing with her hands as she swallowed her last bite.

“ _ What _ ?” she hissed.

Emily only rose her brows and sent a pointed glance towards Timothy. Turning towards him she was meant with an equally suspicious gaze and a shake of the head. With a sigh, she sat back in her chair, looking between the two and waiting for an explanation. 

“I think my mouth just had an orgasm,” Coco moaned with a full mouth, quickly shoving more food into her mouth in fear it would turn out to be a cruel mirage. Em looked at her and embarrassment made her flush a pale pink. Is that what she had looked like?

“Andre,” Venable sighed, settling in her seat and arranging her silverware before she took a single bite, “We’re not trying to bribe anyone, but there is something we all need to understand.”

With a thud of her cane on the floor, the residents turned to her like raccoons being caught in a garbage can. Em prepared herself for a show of saintly-hood the uptight woman so adored.

“There is no ‘us’ and ‘them,’ We are in this  _ together, _ ” Venable proclaimed, “No individual is greater than the group. We did what we had to do. This is, quite simply, a tragedy.”

Em held her tongue for once. While Stu and herself hadn’t been close, she respected him more than she respected most of her fellow purples. The old world may have died, but the power games still presided — a strongman was still a strongman even when draped in fine clothes and laced in a corset. 

It wasn’t as if any of them were paying her any mind, too enthralled in the smell of salt and meat like Hansel and Gretal in the witch’s house. Dinah sighed as she took another bite.

“Where have you been hiding the meat?” 

Venable’s pause waved over Em like a bucket of cold water, the slight twitch of her lip as she looked down at her plate louder and more illuminating than any sermon she had given them. “We have resources… for special occasions.”

Em could only stare at her as she ate, trying to work at the puzzle which was Miss Venable. There were moments where she swore the woman showed regret or perhaps anxiety, but they were small and fleeting. Everyone had a tell, even the most stoic of society. Em just couldn’t figure it out and it drove her up a wall. It felt like she was staring at a brick wall, waiting for it to crumble.

Gallant pulled something out from his mouth, cringing as his teeth dig into something hard. It was white and square, but he couldn’t tell what it was? Gristle? Bone? 

“I’ve never tasted anything like it.” He murmured, examining the object further as he twisted it in the light.

“It’s chicken,” Mead told him a bit too insistently. 

“That’s not a chicken bone,” Timothy spoke, looking from his untouched bowl to the object the hairdresser was holding. His lips pressed into a thin line. Venable took a spoonful to her lips, then another, and then another.

Andre spoke from the other end of the table, voice wavering as he stared at yet another hard piece which had made his teeth hurt, “tell me this doesn’t look like a finger.”

Em looked to her plate, stomach twisting as she poked at the remains of her meal. A piece of white glimmered to the surface. Damning polite behavior, she reached in with her hand and pulled it out. Her mind went blank as she stared at it, rectangular with two prongs reaching outward from the body. It was a tooth. There was no doubt. Chicken didn’t have teeth. A frog gathered at the back of her throat, threatening to leap from her mouth.

“Oh,  _ Jesus Christ _ ,” Andre sputtered out, breath coming out in wheezing gasps as he flew back from the table shrieking, “The stew is Stu!”

The table erupted in panic. Gallant spit out whatever was in his mouth, leaving a dripping dark stain on the tablecloth. Andre wailed and Coco shrieked to a Grey named Mallory to make her throw up. Em could only stare at the near-empty bowl in front of her, the reality not quite sitting with her. Morbid questions filled her mind. It had tasted like… she didn’t know what it tasted like other than meat. Salty, maybe? Sweet? 

A firm hand squeezed her own, Emily once again there to pull her from a spiral. 

“You didn’t know.”

Amongst the screaming, the gagging, and the retching Venable sat, unmoved by the fires of fear rising around her. She didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t show any reaction at all.

“For heaven’s sake,” she spoke with the same amount of annoyance she always addressed them with, a touch of boredom in her tone “Don’t be ridiculous. There are lines which can never be crossed.”

Something was glinting in Venable’s eyes, something that Em had seen many times before but could never properly place. The woman looked to Mead, “not eating people is off the first rank.”

Em’s voice sounded hollow as it left her, “Yet it is always the first taboo to be broken among the desperate.”

The thought of cannibalism wasn’t what alarmed Em. Cannibalism was deeply ingrained in human history — from burial rituals to a final stand against starvation. No. What frightened her was realizing she would do it again in an instant if it meant her survival. A fire burned in her as she looked to Venable, sitting there with a smug glow of victory. She had hated Venable before, but this made her blood boil at the sight of her. A revelation she did not want had been forced upon her and Venable’s eyes glinted as they met her own. 

Her message was clear: Don’t rebel or you’ll be next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got halfway through my plot notes and realized I hit 5,000 words so I decided to break it up into smaller chapters. Since this is a slow-burn it may mean that Michael is introduced a little later than I had planned, but I promise to make it worth it!!
> 
> EDIT (6/10/2020): ok... I know this is unprofessional as hell, but I added some more because the ending just didn't sit right with me for some reason.


	3. Pictionary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because your roommates are horrible doesn't mean you all can't have a good time now and again. Just don't tell Venable.

The excitement over the idea of salvation by the cooperative was a short-lived joy. After months of listening to  _ “The Morning After” _ by McGovern over and over and over was enough to make the residents of Outpost 3 question their sanity as well as their conviction.

Em walked into the salon, her hands wrapped around a collection of pens she had been able to scavenge from her room. She pulled at the obnoxiously high collar of her white shirt. Whenever evening wear wasn’t an obligation, she liked to dress in as few layers as she could — Victorian underwear and a dress that made her look like some governess of orphaned children in a period drama. 

Swinging the door open, she stopped in her tracks. The room was usually devoid of life except for the 6 o’clock “cocktails.” Andre sat there on the couch, his back to her as he stared into the fire.

The brunette debated turning on her heels, but by the time she took a step back, it was too late. Andre’s head turned, hair raising on the back of his neck as he sensed her green eyes boring into his back. He wondered if she would go away if he ignored her long enough, but curiosity got the better of him His head turned ever slightly and Em pretended like she had meant to be seen by the man.

Heels clicked against the wood flooring, only a few steps before pausing at the edge of the large black coffee table between the two large dark sofas.

Two months after Stu’s death and his cheeks were still damp with tears. His red eyes burned her, anger unyielding. She was deserving of his hate... even more so than the others. Just as she couldn’t reassure him of Stu’s safety she could not tell him of her guilt. At least the others showed remorse and disgust at their own actions.

Em tried to speak with Andre on multiple occasions, but her words came out hollow. Anything she said was just to chase off her own guilt. At one point she had mistakenly reminded Andre that he had also eaten from the stew... it didn’t end well. 

Needless to say, these days, the only person he spoke to was Dinah.

There was so much anger and grief twisting inside him. He wanted to scream and throttle Venable damn the consequences. At least then he’d be reunited with the man he loves...  _ loved _ . One meal and the bonds made in good faith and mutual tragedy were fractured with the crack of a whip. 

Em wished he would just verbally eviscerate her like he did Evie. His silence was suffocating. Instead, they stood in awkward silence. She really wasn’t good at this.

“So…” Em trailed, leaning back on her heels and biting her lips as she thought of what to say. Another apology would sound insincere and they both knew it would end them right back where they began. 

“ _ So,” _ Andre mocked, scoffing as he turned back to the fire. 

Em rose a hand as if to reach out to him, mouth opened before closing it once more. Her hand reached out to him before drawing back, hand running through her hair then returning to her side. 

“What’s it like having Dinah Stevens as a mother?”

Another scoff, followed by his gaze flickering up and down her with disdain.

She finally settled on the couch opposite him, “Sore subject… fair.”

“Also literally asked by every person I’ve ever met.”

Mc nodded, “basic.”

“ _ Yup _ ,” Andre said, popping the “p.”

Fiddling with the pens in her hand, Em racked her brain for something to say. It was a curse, anxiety. It made everything seem much worse than it was and was often accompanied by an overwhelming desire to be liked by  _ everyone _ … well…  _ almost _ everyone. Involuntary cannibalism would have been considered some of the worst, but it pales in comparison to nuclear winter. 

Her leg bounced up and down and her eyes flickered from the fire to the ceiling to Andre and back again. Usually, in these moments she’d take out her phone, pens could only distract one for so long.

“God, I wish we had alcohol,” She sighed.

“Amen to that.”

The door creaked open. Em jumped to her feet, holding back the urge to run towards Emily as she quietly closed the door behind her. It felt like an eternity before she turned around. A smile lit up Emily’s face and she waved a collection of paper she had been able to find.

“Ready?”

Relief rolled off Em, tension leaving her shoulders as they can to settle around the coffee table. There was plenty of room, but Em still found it more comfortable to sit on the floor, skirt billowing around her like a puddle of purple. She took a pen and piece of paper and leaned over the table.

“You start. Give me a band.”

Emily’s lips twisted and her nose scrunched as she thought, “… The Beatles.”

Em scribbled down the name and tore it from the rest of the paper, placing it in a small wooden box Emily had brought with her. She grabbed a paper and pen of her own and turned to Em. “Now you.”

“Panic at the Disco.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

Em couldn’t help the laugh that left her, “shut up. You said  _ The Beetles _ .”

“What? It’s a classic.”

Andre’s attention turned from the fire to the pair sitting across from him. He would have left, but after months and months of doing nothing but waking up and waiting to sleep again he was dying for something different.

“Lady Gaga,” Em said.

“Madonna.” Emily countered.

“Justin Bieber.”

“Justin Timberlake.”

“What are you doing?” He finally asked after a few more rounds of them shooting random words back and forth. 

“Pictionary,” Emily answered him with a smile, cheeks flushed from laughing, “Em had the idea.”

“ _ Pictionary _ ?” Andre asked, slowly scooting closer, “Is that a game?”

“Yeah!” Em answered, “My siblings and I used to play it all the time. Right now we’re coming up with random things to go in a hat.”

She motioned to the box slowly gathering more and more strips of paper, “The game is to pick one of these and try to draw it while your teammates guess what it is.”

“So like art charades?”

“Pretty much!”

A small smile flickered to Andre’s lips as he stood up and came to sit beside Emily. 

“Okay. I have one: Dinah Stevens.”

“Oooh,” Em awed, pointing a pen at Emily and Andre, “that’s a good one. Should we do one for each resident?”

Emily shrugged, “I don’t see why not.”

“How angry do you think Coco would be if we put her in there?” Andre asked, grabbing a pen and paper of his own.

Em looked like the Cheshire Cat, smiling ear to ear, “Furious,”

“Let’s do it.”

As the hours passed, more and more residents joined. A few Greys even whispered ideas into Em’s ear as they passed and she would scribble them in and throw them in the box. Em finally took a seat on one of the couches, Timothy and Emily on her right and Coco to her left.

“Okay!Okay!” Em exclaimed as people yelled things at her all at once, “One at a time! Give me stuff. Movies, books, albums, famous people, sayings. Coco! Go!”

“Michel Jackson!”

Em scribbled down the name and tossed it into the pile of paper that threatened to spill from the small box, “Alright! Now… Emily!”

“To Kill a Mocking Bird!”

She nodded as she scribbled it down, “… and since I’m Emily squared I get to go next.”

Gallant groaned, “oh, c’mon!”

“Hey!” Em snipped, smiling as she swung a pen at the man who could only smile and laugh at her antics, “I’m the one with the pen. My pen, my rules!”

Coco leaned over Em, “What are you writing?”

“Stevie Nicks!”

Leaning back in his seat, Gallant draped an arm across the back of his chair, perplexed, “Isn’t that the woman that sings Jolene?”

“NO!” At least five people yelled in unison, quickly falling into a collection of giggles.

Em feigned insult, “how can you mistake Dolly Parton with Stevie Nicks.”

Gallant waved a dismissive hand, “We aren’t all from the countryside of Georgia.”

“I was raised near Atlanta, thank you very much,” Em jested, “I’m only a quarter country girl.”

“Do you have those shirts that say: ‘ _ don’t talk to me until I’ve had my sweet tea?’”  _ Coco asked, hands spreading out like she was hanging up a banner. 

Em couldn’t keep her smile down, “That was one time!”

“Uh-huh,” Gallant laughed, “Suuure it was.”

The brunette grabbed an extra pen and chucked it at the man. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed like this. God knows none of them had even been in a room together without mandatory attendance.

Timothy sat at the edge of the group. He shuffled through the cards they had made, sorting them so they’d fit in the box. “I think we’ve filled out the last one.”

Coco looked around at everyone, “So… we get to play now?”

“Not today,” Emily declared, smiling at Timothy as he held out the box for her to place the top on it. Coco, Andre, and Gallant booed them.

“Look,” Em defended Emily, hands wringing at her wrists “I know y’all were just spitting out words, but  _ I _ had to write them all down. My poor wrist needs a break.”

“Oh  _ boo-hoo, _ ” Coco said.

“Half the fun is not knowing what’s coming,” Timothy reminded, his eyes not leaving Emily. Em could tell he was smitten with her. Poor boy didn’t know how to hide anything.

“Well I don't know about  _ y’all _ ,” Andre spoke, mocking Em’s slight accent as he rose from the couch, “But I’m going to take a nap.”

“I agree,  _ y’all _ ,” Gallant jumped on, dodging another pen Em threw in his direction. 

“Words are an illusion created by humanity,” She jested, earning a dismissive wave from the hairdresser as he walked out the door, “It’s conventional!!”

Coco sighed and laid back on the couch, closing her eyes as she began to whine “I wouldn’t mind the constant hunger if it didn’t come with the constant  _ tiredness _ .”

Em looked to Timothy and Emily. The latter rolled her eyes.

“I feel like I’m back in college,” Em said, leaning back on Emily, “Eating sleep for dinner.”

She could feel Emily’s shoulders shake as she laughed. Timothy took a seat on the other side of the coffee table, resting on the arm of the chair, “C’mon. It couldn’t have been  _ that _ bad.”

“I spent finals week eating only spoonfuls of peanut butter. Then the next year I bought a Costco-sized thing of ramen noodles.”

Emily leaned back her head and groaned, “Don’t talk about food. Even ramen noodles make my mouth water.”

Somehow, Em had made her way from leaning on Emily’s shoulder to having her head in the other girl’s lap. Emily’s hands absentmindedly ran through the brunette’s short bob which was growing longer by the day. 

“Oh!” A memory struck Em like a lightning bolt, “my friend took me to an authentic ramen place before the bombs.”

She hummed at the mere thought of the food, “Best. Thing. Ever. They had special ramen eggs and topped it off with a slab of pork that just fell apart—”

Coco jumped from her seat with a huff, “You’re all sadistic!”

The three of them watched as the blonde stormed across the room, door slamming behind her with a loud  _ bang  _ which made their bones shake. Then they looked to each other, biting their lips but ultimately falling into laughter.

“If I knew it was that easy I would have done it months ago,” Emily laughed.

“C’mon,” Timothy tried to be the voice of reason, trying to keep a straight face but ultimately failing, “That’s just mean.”

“So is Coco,” Em scoffed, reaching for a glass of water, “it’s not like we threatened to kill her.”

“You did,” Emily reminded. 

The other girl paused in her movement and pointed up at her, “ _ Mead _ said ‘murder’, not me. I said I’d  _ come _ for her… I didn’t specify  _ how _ .”

Timothy sighed and shook his head while Emily only looked at him with a smile. 

“At least we have each other,” Emily noted.

Em smiled at that, finally sitting up, “The Three Musketeers!”

“All for one and one for all,” Timothy said.

Emily sighed, “God knows Venable won’t do it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. this scene is pretty short in comparison with my other chapters thus far. It didn't blend well with the other things I have planned, but I thought it was important to show the good times at Outpost 3 as well as the bad. Consider it a palette cleanser for what is to come. Michael will be here by Chapter 4...


	4. Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Things are starting to get real in this chapter and Michael will be appearing in the next one (finally). I know I write a loot per chapter for the most part, but I get super into each and last detail. Trust me, it will all make sense in the end.

Time was a pesky beast. Sometimes it moved by you like the wind, gone before you could realize it was there. Other times it was thick as honey, your body burning in protest as you waded through it. Too much of either was enough to make you go mad. Then again, her sanity had been on a thread since the bombs dropped.

After 18 months — a year and a half, 547.5 days, or 13,140 hours if you wanted to get really particular — it was a wonder any of them were still alive.

After hours spent in the library, the Three Musketeers had found that nuclear winter lasted about 3 years on average. What they had found, however, failed to specify the radiation levels after those years. Eventually, they threw in the towel and resigned themselves to spending the rest of their days underground. The library instead became their oasis where no other resident dared to trespass.

Em had attempted to start drawing again, but Coco relentlessly asked for her portrait any time she pulled out her sketchbook. She swore the woman could hear the scrape of pencil against paper from anywhere in the Outpost. It was an artist’s worse nightmare.

Timothy had tried to entice the other two to work out with him. After the third meal cutback, they couldn’t even do a sit-up without their head becoming light and the world spinning around them.

The walls seemed to grow tighter and tighter around her. At night, the darkness was so suffocating that Em rushed to light a candle before it swallowed her whole. In those moments she felt like Atlas, smothered by the weight of the world on top of her. If she could just see the blue sky and feel cold air upon her skin she would be in heaven. Instead, endless anxieties plagued her — what if there was a cave-in? Was she running out of air or just panicking? It was so stale and cling to her despite it being circulated by a machine she could not see. She was choking to death and the walls would come closer and closer until they became her tomb.

The stabbing sensation in her hand drew her from the flood of thoughts, hands white as they curled around the cover of a book. Once again, the three musketeers gathered in the library. It at least kept their minds active and it had become Em’s personal goal to read each and every book in the outpost, shelves in nearly every nook and cranny. It was her own personal Alexandria.

Timothy laid back on a couch throwing a ball he had found up and down. The sound of it hitting the palm of his hand was like a metronome, bringing her back in synch with the world.

Emily, on the other hand, seemed to be physically exhibiting the anxiety Em internalized. She was pacing a hole into the carpet, arms crossed and jaw clenched.

“It’s October,” She said as she turned and walked back across the small clearing of couches and tables, “We’ve been here for _18 months_.”

“Already?” Em asked, counting weeks on her hand. Wait… when did this week start? Did she count days by when she slept or when she ate? Without sun or a moon, they didn’t even have a concept of night and day. Just periods of sleep and consciousness.

“ _Already_?” Emily echoed, voice going up an octave, “it’s felt like years.”

“Technically _a_ year,” Timothy pointed out, quickly backtracking as Emily sent him a look, “but it’s not like Venable is passing out calendars or anything.”

Emily scoffed, “Venable isn’t _doing_ anything… you know, I _bet_ she’s hoarding food for herself.”

“Why do that when she can just chop up another person and eat them.”

Emily sent him another scathing glare, “not funny.”

Em sighed and shut her book with a loud _thump,_ “What we _need_ is a distraction.”

Timothy closed his eyes and stopped throwing his ball, hand held up in the air, “I think I may face the cannibals if we have to play Pictionary one more time.”

The brunette placed her book aside, biting her lip as she thought of something… _anything_ to distract them from the world.

“It’s October, right?” she finally proposed, “What about some scary stories? We already have a bonfire… pretty much everywhere.”

Timothy sat up, “isn’t our predicament _enough_ of a horror story?”

Em turned on her heel, hands behind her back as she tainted him, “What? Are you _scared_?”

“No!”

“Then prove it.” A smile finally returned to Emily’s face as she flounced towards the boy, coming to sit at his side. Her expression reminded Em of a cat, content and ready to watch the mice dance. “Tell us a story, Mr. Valedictorian.”

He shook his head and sighed, “I don’t know…”

“Did you guys ever have that book,” Em asked, “ _Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark_?”

Emily gasped, “Yes! They made it into a movie, right? I could never sleep after just seeing those pictures.”

“Made Texas Chainsaw Massacre seem like a picnic,” Timothy noted, earning a laugh from Emily. She leaned into him and Em looked to the side towards the rows and rows of books.

“What even were the stories about?” Em asked, turning from the smitten couple to give them some form of privacy, “I can only remember the pictures.”

Emily stood, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed their surroundings, “for all the book they have in this place there’s got to be a copy. It was a _school_ , after all.”

“I don’t know…” Em teased, side eying Timothy, “ … if any of the boys were like T _imothy.”_

“For the last time: I’m _not_ scared!”

“We’ll see about that as soon as we find that book,” Emily said, pulling the boy to his feet before turning to Em, “Timothy and I can take the first three rows and you can take the last two.”

“Careful,” Em warned, watching the two saunter off down an aisle, “Mead’s only going to buy me saying y’all are _‘just friends’_ for so long.”

Timothy’s face flushed red. Emily’s face shined with a look that dared the world to take from her the one good thing she had found among the ashes. “Can’t let Venable control _all_ aspects of our life.”

“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Em said, “some people say they feed on misery instead of blood.”

“She’s certainly got the personality of one.”

With a smile, the two disappeared from sight, Emily’s giggling reaching through the books to Em’s ears. With a tired sigh, she wandered to the other side of the room. Once upon a time, she would spend hours in any bookstore or library she entered. This place, however, seemed to be predominantly filled with books written by old white men. A few newer books were scattered here and there, but they were few and far between. On bad days, Emily and herself would battle for them with rounds and rounds of _rock, paper, scissors_.

She quickly fell into a rhythm. _A state of focus,_ her brother would have said. He had been writing a book on the subject before... before...

“Thoreau… Douglas...” Em mouthed the title and name of each and every book to keep her mind from wandering to the less than pleasant.

At some point, Timothy joined her. The sound of feet against carpet pulled her from her trance, forcing her to feel how tired her eyes had become. She pulled out of her crouched position, frowning as her back popped and protested.

“You’d think they’d at least have one scary book,” Em noted as Timothy made it to her side, “any luck on y’all’s end?”

“If you count _Hawthorne_ as a horror author.”

“I don’t know… you could count _The Birthmark_ as a horror story.”

“ _The Birthmark_?”

“A woman born with a birthmark marries an alchemist. Instead of accepting her, he seeks out how to obtain perfect beauty and—”

“Guys!” Emily’s voice rang out from a row over, “Come look at this!”

The pair looked at each other then meandered over to Emily. A large tome was in her arms. It was as large as a small child, thick as the old dictionaries from reference sections. As they got closer, Em saw the cover lacked any discernable title and the pages were yellowed with age.

“What is it?” Timothy asked, pacing a hand on Emily’s shoulder.

Emily was clearly in awe, “I don’t know. Looks like some sort of grimoire.”

Timothy frowned at that. His family had never been particularly religious. It didn’t define their personality, but they still went to church every Sunday. The first thing they teach you as a Christian child is that those who commune with Satan are evil. There were two columns of items... one good and aligned with God and one bad and alighted with Satan. 

He thought back to his first day in Outpost 3. At first, he had dismissed it as a trauma-induced hallucination. “What kind of school has grimoires?”

“Religious studies?” Em offered. She motioned to the book, “let me see. Not going to lie, I’ve always been fascinated by these things.”

Emily carefully handed the book off to her. It was so heavy Em nearly dropped it as soon as Emily handed it over. Struggling ever slightly, she turned through the pages.

“See anything?” Emily asked after a few moments of silence.

The pages were well kept. A few water marks marred the writing and bled the ink. Most of it was illegible... in some language she didn’t understand with few English translations scattered throughout. The clearest page called to her, a large circular design taking up most of it.

“Summoning circles,” she muttered, fingers tracing over the design and tracing down towards the words written underneath.

“What?” Timothy asked, scooting closer.

“They're used in rituals to summon things.”

“Such as?”

“Good intentions, luck, money, sprits...”

“...Demons” Timothy finished.

“Exactly!”

“So... like a pentagram?” Emily asked, arms crossed and brows furrowed in thought.

“Kind of?” Em admitted, “pentagrams are actually symbolic of fire, water, earth, air, and spirit. It’s actually supposed to be used in protection.”

Timothy looked up at the sky with a bemused laugh, “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

“I had a friend that practiced Wicca,” Em told him, “... and I used to get bored and look up random stuff at 3am when I couldn’t sleep.”

She quickly turned her attention back to the book, “this seems to be summoning... _damn_! The name is smudged.”

Emily, whose head was resting on the other girl’s shoulder, looked at the other two with a grin, “do we dare?”

“No. Nope.” He said, holding his hands up in the air and marching a few steps away and turning back towards them with a sigh, “I’m not messing with that stuff.”

“It’s the end of the world, Tim,” Em said, “if I _haven’t_ seen a demon yet I doubt I ever will.”

“Maybe we can sacrifice Venable,” Emily whispered to the two, her counterpart laughing while her boyfriend continued to have an existential crisis.

Em seemed to consider the option, “or Coco. Spare us another conversation about influencer culture at the very least... I’d sell my soul for that.”

Smoky laughed and Timothy could only groan, hands covering his face.

“C’mon,” he pleaded, “this is literally textbook horror movie stuff.”

“You don’t have to join if you don’t want to,” Emily reassured before turning back to the other girl, “what do we need?”

Em hummed and read through the list once more, “a candle, a drop of blood, the incantation, and a summoning circle.”

“Really? No sacrificial chicken or anything?”

“I can start the summoning circle if you can get the sowing kit from my room. It’s in my desk.”

Emily nodded and left the room. Em fathered the book and wandered to the tables, putting it down and pulling her sketchbook out from her pockets as Timothy reluctantly followed in her heels.

Not bothering to sit, Em leaned over the table with her pencil in hand. Hair that now curled down to her shoulders fell into her face and she let out a huff before pulling out a ribbon and tying it out of her face.

“Tim,” she asked, not looking up as she carefully replicated the circle, “can you hand me some of those candles over there?”

With a reluctant sigh, the boy shuffled to the corner of the room. Wobbling the candle stand as carefully as he could, he dragged it across the floor and towards the table. It was like watching a child protest bedtime, dragging their feet and taking as long as possible for every task that brought them closer to sleep.

“This is a horrible idea.”

It was Em’s turn to sigh, “these things are like Bloody Mary. It scares us for a moment, but ultimately nothing happens.”

“Did _you_ ever do Bloody Mary?”

She smirked, “The drink or the game?”

Timothy crossed his arms and stared at her, unamused.

“No,” she admitted, finally turning to look him in the eyes, “I was a child and I was scared and I wouldn’t even look in mirrors for a month after I heard the story. My dad finally had enough and forced me to do it... and here I am. Nothing happened.”

Timothy broke eye contact. He wasn’t expecting such an honest response and didn’t quite know how to follow it. How was he supposed to talk about the incident without sounding crazy?

Em watched the slight twitch around Timothy’s mouth. He looked shifty, eyes not focusing on any one thing. She stared at him deadpan and water for him to speak.

Finally, his eyes rested in her. To his surprise, she was still looking at him.

“What?” He asked.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s _not_ nothing. I was a psych major, remember?”

“I thought you switched to English.”

“That’s beside the point.”

Silence. One beat. Then two.

“Out with it,” she insisted.

“Something weird happened,” he blurted as she finished her sentence, her eyes widening in surprise at his sudden forwardness, “when we first got here.”

“What happened?”

Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of creaking doors interrupted him. Em... maybe he could trust. He knew logically that he could trust Emily as well, but... god, it sounded crazy.

“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Em moved to insist, but as she watched Emily come round the corner she also saw Timothy’s tensions leave his body.

“Forget about what?” Emily asked, looking between the two.

Timothy tensed as Em began to speak.

“He was telling me about a time he had a sleepover and tried the Bloody Mary chant.”

Timothy let out the breath he was holding.

“Dad thought it would be a good idea to play with the circuit breaker,” he finished, sending a grateful smile to Em, “my brother jumped so high he nearly got his head stuck in the ceiling.”

“See?” Emily said, squeezing Timothy’s arm, “you have nothing to worry about. Demons don’t exist.”

“What about Venable?” Em asked

Emily smiles and turned away from her lover, “lucky for us, in her case, it’s only metaphorical.”

The two began to set up the ritual, moving the candles according to the instructions — a semi-circle formation on the side of the symbol farthest from her. Em made sure they were melted to the table to prevent a fire. Then they would summon an actual demon by the name of The Cooperative. The symbol stood front and center, wax dripping onto its corners.

Emily and Timothy stood back, arms linked together. His hands dig into the fabric of her sleeve and she offered a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

Em began the ritual, book in front of her for reference.

_ “quaesitor existunt veritatis,” _ she read, then pricked her finger with a needle. The blood welled up and she pressed on the wound until it dropped and stained the paper with crimson, “ _pondera excitare restitueret.”_

Three times she repeated the phrase, drilling blood into one flame, then the next, then the next. Then she let it sit in silence. One second. Nothing. Another second. Nothing. A third—

“Raah!” Emily yelled, grabbing her boyfriend’s shoulder and shaking him.

“Shit!” Timothy cried, crossing himself as he fell backward off the table he had been sitting on, “get away from me!”

Emily and Em erupted into laughter. It took Timothy a few moments to realize he was in no danger and once he looked up at them they burst into laughter again, holding each other. Someone snorted which made the peals of laughter start up again.

He laid his head back on the ground and closed his eyes, arms draping over his forehead as he calmed his racing heart.

“You guys are horrible.” He sighed, a smile forming despite himself.

“All... Emily’s,” Em said between hysterics, “are some form... of chaotic.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said, doubling over with tears in her eyes as she grabbed onto the other woman’s arm, “you just—“

Her stomach hurt and her lungs burned and she loved every minute of it. She looked up to Em who made the sign of the cross over her chest before crossing her fingers and holding them out in front of her.

“The power of Christ compels you!” She cries out between shaking breaths, doubling over again. Even Timothy began to laugh, shoulders shaking as he tried to picture what he must have looked like.

“If you three are finished with your magic tricks,” a voice came from the door, Mead’s figure looming as they bit their lips and held their breath to keep from giggling, “dinner is in five.”

Shaking her head, the older woman made her way back to the door, grumbling but unable to hide her amusement, “Damn kids.”

Giggling faded I to unrelenting grins that made flushed cheeks even redder. Em and Emily’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. Gathering up the remnants of their decorum, they held out their hands to Timothy, pulling him up to his feet.

He looked at the two of them up to the ceiling as if he were asking it for guidance.

“Fuck you,” he finally settled, a chuckle escaping him and greatly amusing the girl that leaned against him as they began to walk.

“Careful with that word,” Em warned, walking backward to address the pair, seriousness taunting the fun demeanor she tried to keep up, “Venable would love a reason to cook all of us up for dinner.”

* * *

No one spoke anymore. There was nothing to speak about. They stared ahead, eyes vacant of life. Their bodies were moving, but their minds had long since given up and resigned themselves to fate.

Coco didn’t even bother with her hair anymore. Gallant had cut it when they hit the fourth-month mark and the humidity had made it curl into the shape of an orb around her head. Gallant himself hadn’t bothered to even change clothes in the past week...or was it two? Em was almost grateful for the pandemic and subsequent quarantine that occurred before they went subterranean. It had taught her the importance of a schedule for her mental health.

Venable was the only one that kept up with appearances. Red hair never had a strand out of place and not a single piece of fuzz could be found on her black dress. She sat straight at the end of the table, back straight as a board and her eyes full of contempt as she looked upon her charges. The ironwoman seemed to be searching for something as she stared at each one of them in turn.

Em did her best to ignore the intertwined hands of the couple beside her. God knows Venable was itching to torture them. Em had faced many people like the red-haired horror. She knew how to ignore something without making it obvious… passive manipulation.

If she was being honest, part of her was somewhat jealous of the happiness her friends had found… but she also knew how dangerous love was, even more so given their circumstances.

Venable’s cane struck the floor like a gavel, heads slowly turning towards her like zombies at the control of a necromancer.

“I have an announcement,” she said, nodding to the half of a cube that sat before them. Em could feel her stomach gurgle, felt the hot feeling of her own stomach acid digesting her organs. “This will be our last breakfast. We’re cutting back to one meal a day.”

Coco’s jaw dropped, but she didn’t have the energy to make a scene, “you can’t be serious.”

“An effective dieting technique,” Evie declared.

“ _Yeah_ , so is _starving_ to death!”

Em sighed, running a hand through her hair, pulling it back before letting it fall around her shoulders once more.

“Perhaps we should move meals to breakfast instead of dinner,” Em proposed, “having fuel at the beginning of the day may—”

Venable’s eyes narrowed, head cocking to the side ever slightly.

“Are you _questioning_ my judgment?”

“Yes.”

Damn surviving. She’d rather become everyone’s next meal that deal with the bitch for a single second longer. Starvation had lowered her control and her tolerance for the bullshit Venable had a knack for. She’d rather die tearing apart a tyrant than live bowing her head to one.

“May I remind you that _I_ was assigned to this outpost for a reason.” Venable said, leaning back in her seat and letting the silence sit for a moment before she continued, “and unlike some, I was able to graduate college.”

Em had tried to be kind to the woman in the beginning. She had tried to take initiative by counting resources and assessing tools at their disposal, but as soon as the woman’s cane crossed the threshold her only message to Em was to sit down and shut up.

Gallant scoffed as he looked between the two, “ _How_ are we supposed to survive on _half_ a cube?”

Venable pulled her eyes away from Em’s, “it’s not _optimal_ , but also not _impossible_. Either way, we have no choice. Not if we want to keep eating at all.”

Em, Timothy, and Emily looked to another, trying to look for reassurance but finding none. For once Venable wasn’t wrong.

Gallant scoffed and stared down his fellow residents. How could they stay silent? He wasn’t going to let Venable starve him to death. They should cut the Grey’s meals instead, he reasoned, they _paid_ for their tickets… or at least, Coco’s father had.

“I fucking can’t do this anymore!” She cried.

Sensing the collecting anxiety at the table, Dinah stood and addressed them all, “We don’t _know_ how strong we are until we have to _face_ adversity. This could be an opportunity for all of us to grow.”

“Finish that bumper sticker shit you used to say on your show, and I’m _strong_ enough to shove this _fork_ in your _neck!”_ Gallant yelled, table clattering as he jumped to his feet brandishing his chosen weapon.

Em rose hesitantly, hands up and trying to get Gallant’s attention, “ _She’s_ not the one you're mad at.”

The hairdresser didn’t hear him, continuing to rave like a madman and Em fell back in her seat, head bowing and cradled in her hands. She was so _tired_. She was tired of the tantrums, tired of the hunger. Her ribs were showing through her skin, each and every piece of her spine sticking out as if she were a cactus instead of a person. They were all ghosts. Their bodies had yet to catch up with them.

Before all this she had dreams… to make it big as an artist or an author or anything. Having those dreams crushed made Em wonder if it was better to just give up. Certainly would be more peaceful. If only the grimoire had a spell to bring back her motivation for just living.

_ Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret. _

_ Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret. _

_ Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret. _

“What was that?” someone whispered beside her. Em realized she had been quietly chanting the words from the ritual. Pulling herself from the fog, she removed her head from her hands and sat up in her chair.

“Nothing.”

Before Emily could note her friend’s odd behavior, the sound of porcelain shattering pulled them back to Gallant’s tantrum.

“What are you going to do?” Gallant demanded, bouncing like a wrestler in the ring and glaring daggers at mead, “Shoot us all? Huh? What are you going to do?”

The First moved forward to apprehend the man, towering over him like he was a child about to be thrown in time-out. Venable rose, opening her mouth to speak.

They were quickly deafened by alarms, red lights flashing. Em closed her eyes, suddenly blinded as she rose to her feet and fell back to the wall behind her.

“Perimeter alert,” The Fist said, “There’s been a breach.”

They all looked to Venable, but she was just as alarmed as they were. Em’s eyes immediately went to Emily’s. She was leaning against timothy, eyes turned up towards the ceiling and her hands curling around his arm. Everyone was frozen, suddenly back where this all began — the emergency messages that blared and told them the world was dying and taking them down with it.

“Back to your rooms!” Venable barked, “All of you!”

“If it’s a breach we should prepare a defensive position,” Em cried over the alarms, “If it’s cannibals—”

“This is my outpost!” Venable snarled, stalking towards her until her face was inches from her own, “and I am telling you to stand down and return o your rooms.”

Em could feel someone tugging at her arm, but paid it no mind.

“The noisiest flies are the first to be squashed,” Venable said.

“I fear more for the wasp in a beehive.”

Another tug forced her to turn towards the source. Emily was reaching out to the brunette, one hand on Timothy who was trying to drag her from the dining room.

“It’s not worth it,” She hissed, pulling the girl close, “pick you battles.”

Em snatched back her arm, “I’m tired of waiting for a hill to die on.”

With one last scathing look to Venable, she grabbed a knife from the table and stormed from the room. If she was to live out of spite so be it.

* * *

Em paced back and forth in her room, crossing it in three strides before turning on her heel and starting the whole process all over again. Her hands ran through her hair, tying it up and taking it down, braiding and upbraiding.

Waiting to see what her fate was infuriated her. _Waiting_ infuriated her. If this was an attempted break-in by cannibals or monsters her room was the _last_ place she wanted to be — it cornered her. No, the best defensive position would be —

She groaned and forced herself to sit at her desk, leg bouncing up and down. She wished she was one of the wardens, working alongside The Fist. At least then she’d be doing something. They all acted like the purples were the ruling class, but it was a lie. The Greys outnumbered them and could take over whenever they could. Venable could have them killed in a heartbeat. What they had was only an illusion. When the time came for them to finally wield it their hands would only meet empty air, leaving them to fall to an unsightly demise.

The alarm had stopped blaring, at the very least. Spared her from another migraine.

She jumped as a knock came at her door, raising to her feet and trying to seem as if she wasn’t in the process of losing her sanity. The voice that left her didn’t feel like her own, detached and far too formal.

“Come in.”

A creak filled the room and a Grey appeared, freshly laundered clothes in hand. She bowed her head to Em as she entered before moving to place the garments on her bed.

“Thank you,” Em said reflexively. The Grey turned to her, eyes on the ground.

“Do you want me to do your hair for you, miss?”

“What?” Em asked, hand going to feel the remnants of braids still in her hair. Heat rose to her neck. She must have looked like a raving mad man. “Oh… no. Thanks for asking.”

With another bow, the girl scurried from the room, letting out a gasp as she ran into The Fist right outside the door. A quick and fearful apology left the Grey before she disappeared down the hall, door left wide opened.

The Fist’s hand, which had been held up to knock, fell back to her side. “May I?”

“Please,” Em invited, rounding the bed to place the clothes the Grey had brought in aside for the time being, “it’s been a while since we last talked.”

The ability to look past the color-coded rulebook Venable enforced served her well as long as the woman never found out. Even the Wardens, strong enough to take her down by force, feared the woman… or perhaps trusted Mead so much that they bought into whatever demands Venable spat out. Em just needed them to _doubt_ their orders if the time came when Venable ordered her death.

“How’s the research going?” The Fist asked, nodding to the pile of book balancing precariously on the edge of her desk. Em spared them a glance and sighed, shaking her head.

“You’d know more than those moldy things,” She said, the other woman smiling ever slightly, “is there _anything_ we can do to create a self-sustaining food supply?”

The Fist’s smile faded, lips twisting as she thought, sauntering over to her books and reading the titles, “I know I once made a post about a special facility made to store seeds… problem is, we don’t have means for inter-continental travel.”

“Would the Cooperative?”

“That would be a call for Miss Venable,” she said with a shrug, “Right now our best decision is rationing.”

“I don’t like those odds.”

The Fist tried to offer a reassuring smile, but the truth was they wouldn’t last the rest of the year even with rationing. She had tried to press for explorative missions, but Venable said they couldn’t expend the manpower. They might as well fire all their ammunitions into the walls.

Em couldn’t help the frustrated sigh that left her. Biting her lip, she tried to think of any other option than sitting and waiting for the end. “Do we know anything about the composition of those nutrient bars?”

“I couldn’t find any documentation,” The Fist admitted, “The cooperative should be able to provide if we keep to the plan.”

The brunette scoffed, “ _Venable’s_ plan.”

In two strides, The Fist came to stand beside her. If she wanted, she could have snapped her like a twig. Instead, she placed a hand on Em’s shoulder.

“She was put in charge for a reason.”

They were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that made Em nearly jump into the woman’s arms. The Fist hurried to the door, ducking her head through the doorway and standing there for a moment with her hand on her utility belt.

“Wait here.”

The door slammed shut behind her and Em moved to follow, but became distracted. In the sudden silence, a whispering sound could be heard. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it. It surrounded her like she was in a giant bubble, sometimes wandering to her left or her right like a beast that kept moving when she turned to look at it.

Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the sound.

“ _Quaesitor existunt…”_ she swore she heard, too faint to be certain. It was a breeze in the trees, gone before you knew it was there, _“veritatis pondera….”_

No. That was stupid. Demons didn’t exist. She was just being paranoid. Shaking her head, she made her way to her closet. It was a busted pipe, she reasoned as she picked up a candelabra to at leave give her something to see by.

The second the door creaked open, the whispering sound became louder. Then, from the depths of the shadows, a snake dropped down from above. Em jumped back with a gasp, slamming the closet shut and landing on top of her bed. Cautiously, she opened it once more. She stood far enough away to be safe, but close enough to examine. It was black… head rounded instead of pointed…

Em placed the candelabra on her desk and reached for the pile of clothes she had placed aside. Throwing them aside without much care, she founded what she needed in the pile. Working quickly, she twisted the wire of a hangar into as straight of a line as she could manage.

“Hello there,” she cooed, placing the metal in front of the snake and tapping it gently against its mouth. Patiently, she waited until the snake became irritated and bit at the wire. Swooping in, Em grabbed it by the neck the little beasty hissing and thrashing its tail. If it had been a thicker snake, it may have been able to wrangle itself from her hands, but it couldn’t have been bigger than a rat snake.

Once it had calmed some, Em reached for its tail and examined its underbelly. Best thing about an apocalypse was having an obscene about of time to read. There, near the end of the tail, two rows of scales sat.

“You’re nothing but a sweetheart, aren’t you,” She cooed, loosening her grip only slightly. It wasn’t venomous, proving her point as it opened its mouth to hiss once more, wriggling around in an attempt to free itself. She much preferred the company of real snakes to their metaphorical human counterparts.

Keeping a close eye on her new pet, Em walked out the door and right into Miss Miriam Mead. The woman got a good face full of hissing snake and stumbled back a few steps with a gasp. Her tone quickly turned from one of surprise to irritation.

“You too?”

Em smiled at the woman, “can I keep it?”

Mead scoffed and shook her head, but Em could see the fleeting smile on her lips as she procured a bag. “put it in there.”

Mead always reminded Em of a frustrated but amused mother. The smile quickly returned as Em plopped the creature into what looked like a wriggling mass of its brethren.

“First witchcraft, now snakes,” Mead tried to chide, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Does this have anything to do with the breach?” Em couldn’t help but ask.

Mead pretended not to hear, occupying herself with closing up the bag of snakes, “Any more?”

“Not sure.”

They both turned to The Fist as she approached, Mead giving a nod towards Em’s room. Dutifully, The Fist went inside. Both of them stood in the doorway and watched as her room was rummaged through. She was lucky she had hidden her banned items under a loose floorboard ages ago.

By the time she was done, two other snakes had been found and the two wardens wordlessly went on their way.

“Venomous ones have pointed heads, fangs, and a single row of scales on their anal plate,” Em called out once they had made it partway down the hall.

She could see Mead chuckle and shake her head. Em’s eyes flickered from the back of Mead to that of The Fist. The latter clearly respected the former immensely.

Locking the door behind her, she made her way to the library. Venable’s pawns could be easily swayed, but her knight would be more of a challenge.

* * *

Dinner time came around once more and once more Em had been forced to leave her book-filled sanctuary to play nice with all the residents... not that she was particularly the nice sort when with them. She used to be nice. At least, she liked to think she was.

Why was “nice” always just pretending you weren’t angry or annoyed? If one looked into the human mind they’d probably find that not a single one of them was truly “nice.” Everyone got annoyed, everyone got angry, everyone _hated_ someone else. Yet, here they sat around the table once more, acting like they were refined and polite yet still being shocked when, as always, their humanity shines through.

Philosophical pondering was always far more interesting then whatever conversation was going on between this lot. Today, however, was an oddity. The table silent.

At least they weren’t eating cubes tonight... and she knew what exactly was in the soup. She was drawn from her reverie at the smell of it, mouth watering even before the Greys had entered the room.

They quickly straightened their silverware and gracefully draping napkins across their laps. Perhaps the silence was due to the last outcome of Venable’s hospitality.

Dishes clinked and Em smiles at the Grey who placed her meal before her. She eyes the others, waiting before she took a single bite.

Coco also eyed the food, watching the Greys serve them one by one. Her nose crinkled as she eyes what this evening had in store for them. “I have a rule against eating things with _no_ legs or too _many_ legs.”

“Oh, _right_ ,” Andre snipped, rolling his eyes. He had gone from denial to anger to depression and now back to anger in the past year. Grief never did like to be linear. “But you’re _fine_ eating something with _two_ legs.”

“For the last time!” Gallant snapped, “we didn’t eat your boyfriend!”

Mead sighed from her left, “Eat it or don’t. No one’s going to force it down you.”

“Adversity makes strange bedfellows,” Dinah notes, sending a pointed look to her son, “and worse dinner companions.”

Andre’s lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes flickered to anywhere that _wasn’t_ his mother.

“It’s _food_ ,” Dinah reminded them all, “and we’re _starving_. We should be grateful for the fruits of the earth.”

Em quelled a groan as she watched Evie preen like a bird, signaling a story was about to begin. The old woman straightened her back and puffed out her chest before leaning against the table.

“Steamed snake soup is actually quite _delicious_ ,” she informed them.

“Jesus Christ,” Gallant whispered from the other side of the table, Evie’s hearing far too terrible to know that they were smiling more at her grandson’s distress than her tale.

“It was the centerpiece of a dinner I attended at Kuala Lumpur with _Gina Lollobrigida_.”

“The only time I’ve seen someone eat a snake,” Em noted, “was on that Bear Grylls survival show.”

Gallant’s head rose from his hands as he snorted out a laugh. Mead even smiled at her left.

“You’re lucky we’re not making you eat grubs.”

On her right, Emily was nearly buzzing in anticipation. As soon as Mead stopped speaking she was quick to address Venable, sitting on her hands as if she were resisting the urge to raise her hand — the only sign an untrained she could find that would display her eagerness.

“So, who’s in your office.”

Venable was off-put by the question, raising her head as if she had dozed off at the end of the table and was slowly rousing, “I beg your pardon?”

“The alarms went off before,” Emily notes, “someone came inside.”

Em turned to her friend in surprise. Someone was here? In the outpost? From outside? Venable allowed them to come inside?

“Who else is here?” Timothy insisted as Venable failed to respond.

Venable looked less than pleased but masked it well as the patience of a mentor trying to evoke the same quality from their student.

“All questions will be answered in due course.”

“And hoarding knowledge makes the flock more controllable,” Em said.

“ _Eat_.” Was Venable’s only response, tapping her cane to signify the end of this particular conversation.

Em reluctantly fell in line with the others, obediently raising the covering of their soup. Hissing erupted from the bowls, snakes slithering across the table just as scared as the residents that jumped backward with screams of terror.

Mead’s eye’s widened as she witnessed the rebirth of the snakes she had personally beheaded, looking to Venable for answers. The woman had none, eyes widening in horror at the sight before her. This was not her orchestration, her design.

Some people ran in terror, Em froze. This time felt differences a fog had encompassed her mind and the world around her became a distant memory. A buzz filled her body and her ears, the screaming of others sounding far, far away. Did they even exist in the first place?

Her head tilted to the side as the black snake from before slithered towards her, curling around her arm. It feared its head upwards. Not to attack, but simply to look at her. She looked into its eyes and felt like she understood the world in its entirety. The weight of the world was not suffocating but consuming. She wanted to be consumed by it. She wanted —

The snake dropped from her arm to the floor and she was back, blinking away the fog as one blinked away sleep. The buzzing sensation left her and her surroundings rushed over her like ice water on a hot summer’s day.


	5. Langdon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The time has come for Langdon to make his appearance. Super excited to write his interactions with Em. Thank you for your Kudos and comments! They really make my day!

The air was thick and smelled of must. People crowded into the streets like they were in the center of New York City, but when she looked up she saw the towering remnants of an ancient metropolis. Like a tide, they pulled at her this way and that. Green eyes staring up at the sky quickly were once more pulled to the cobblestone street beneath her feet as she tripped and fell to the ground.

She had to move. That was the only thing she was sure of. She had to find him.

“He’s here!” the people murmured, the phrase coming towards her like ripples in a pond, followed by gushing. Their words were a roar in her ear, fan-girls and fan-boys all vying to be seen and heard over all the others.

Something possessive curled around her heart, a jealous python that would squeeze until the organ burst in her chest and rendered her lifeless on the street. Then she would be left to be trampled by the stampede, head caved in and bones broken by a million feet — the second rendition of the Who concert of the 19070s.

She had to move.

The snake in her chest provoked something in her. Her hands were like claws as they dug into the shoulders of those in front of her, pulling them back so she could surge forwards. Like rag-dolls they allowed her to tear into them or perhaps she simply didn’t care if they were hurt. All that mattered was finding him.

Finally, she could see the edge of their ranks. They were like a funeral procession, swaying back and forth silently. No cries of praise or screaming of star-struck fans close to their equivalent of a god. He wasn't a god… not to her. Or maybe he was? She couldn’t recall.

All she knew is that when she looked at him her heart soared and she felt happier than she had ever felt before. When she finally saw his golden hair between the silhouettes of those before her she felt giddy, a smile pulling at her lips as she reached out to him. Blue eyes met hers and she could see the universe within them, a sea she could explore a million times over without growing tired. She smiled so much it hurt, her lips forming his name like a prayer.

The smile faded as quickly as it had formed. His back turned to her as he ascended the stairs, up to one of the ancient monoliths that surrounded them. Her heart fell to her stomach and all she could do was stand there, hot and salty tears pouring down her cheeks.

He was hers, wasn’t he? Or was she simply of the masses, looking upon him and wishing to be looked upon in return… to be something more than what they were.

Em awoke with a gasp, heart hammering in her ears as she stared down at the floor of the empty hallway, the wall she leaned on cool to the touch.

Wait… hallway?

Panicked, she righted herself, turning around in circles as she tried to figure out where she was. How did she end up in the hallway? The last thing she remembered was Venable sending them to their rooms as wardens rushed in to deal with the snakes. Emily, as usual, had pulled Em to her senses… literally tugging her from the chair with the help of The Fist. The Three Musketeers had gathered in the library, Timothy convinced they had actually summoned a demon while the two girls sought a more logical explanation

Then she had gone to bed, seeking refuge from the continuous hunger that clawed at her belly… sleepwalking maybe? But she had never sleepwalked before…

Em looked down at her legs. She had gotten dressed, entirely in purple with a bow around her neck and puffed sleeves that reminded her of the 80s. Her now shoulder-length hair was even pulled back into a bun.

A hand went to her wrist, something stiff behind the cuffs of her sleeves. She had even readied the pocket knife she had smuggled in, hidden in a secret pocket she had sown in during their first few weeks in the outpost.

She had always been meticulous when getting ready for the day — the curse of Victorian clothes and an inability to trust the presiding authority. So how could she not remember? Dissociating wasn’t new to her — it was common to get into a routine and go on autopilot, but this was just… black. Like she had drunk too much or had her wisdom teeth removed.

“Em!” A voice called, the woman in question turning at the sound of footsteps running in her direction. Emily bounded towards her, lifting her skirt so she could move as quickly as possible. “There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!”

The brunette didn’t even note the buzzing feeling until it retreated from her, leaving her head, then her shoulders, and onward until it left her toes and seemed to seep into the floor, her spine-shivering at the sensation. How could she not have felt it jitter her bones?

Emily noted her friend's distant gaze and pinched brows, hand going to cover Em’s freezing ones. “Are you alright?”

Em shook her head, trying to clear away the fog.

“Sorry,” She apologized, offering an unconvincing and certainly not reassuring smile despite her intentions, “lost my head for a moment there. Did you need something?”

Emily frowned for a moment but didn’t push.

“Venable called for a meeting. Maybe we’ll _finally_ figure out something.”

She took a few steps forward, hand reaching back for Em to take. A small relieved smile flickered to Emily’s face as Em took her hand, allowing the ebony-haired girl to tug her along to the salon.

“Who do you think was in Venable’s office?” Emily asked. Her hand was tight around Em’s as if she were afraid the brunette would float away.

“I don’t know.”

“Has to be someone important. I’ve never seen her so ruffled.”

“She deserves to be ruffled,” Em notes, earning a laugh from her companion.

“Amen to that.”

* * *

Em would probably never stop complaining about the arrangement of furniture in the salon. Having her back to open air was unnerving and knowing a wall of Greys were behind her didn’t help smooth out the hairs that stood up on the back of her neck.

She shifted this way and that as the others chatted around her, trying to find a position that eased her tension. The brunette would slouch, but corsets made that physically impossible. Emily noted her friend's discomfort and offered her a reassuring smile.

God, she wished she could join the Greys, standing in the background against the walls or above them on the small balcony. She glanced over to Venable who stood front and center. It reminded Em of an annoying governess, looking down at her charges with her nose in the air. No, if Em moved that would break the woman's _precious_ rules. Heavens knew they couldn’t break quid pro quo of their tiny society.

While Venable’s presence was enough to seep any joy from the room, there was an added weight to the usual tension. This moment was going to be a defining one. A visitor knocking on one's door during a nuclear winter was haunting and they had all been warned about the cannibals… the wild, tumor infested ones at the very least.

The clicking of heels against wood was a drum-roll suitable for a battlefield, growing closer and closer at an agonizingly slow pace. They all turned their attention to the door which stood wide open by a Grey. From the shadows, a man came forth.

His clothes were much more modern than her own, making Em feel more than a bit ridiculous. She kept her hands in her lap and forced herself not to fidget as he rounded the room. The light of the fire he was approaching made his features more prominent, but her attention was focused on his hair. The way the firelight hit him made it seem like there was a golden halo around his head, catching and setting ablaze every stray strand. It was enough to awe at, the poet in her quick to make a comparison to angels. Then again, even God’s most beautiful angel had locks of golden hair… and they all know what happened to him.

He came to a stop uncomfortably close to Venable. It was enough to unnerve the woman, a triumphant smile quickly pressed into a thin line. His actions were primal, a lion trying to take over the pride. When Em glanced at Emily and the others she found that they had already removed their gaze as if they were watching a dance that was not meant to be seen. Coco scratched at the back of her neck and even Dinah preoccupied herself with straightening a wrinkle in her dress.

Whatever Venable saw in the man’s eyes was enough to make her falter and step back, the second-long interaction feeling much longer.

Smug, he pulled his gaze away from the queen of Outpost 3 and glanced over them with his hands behind his back. He oozed and burned with something Em had been yearning for — power. Letting the silence sit for a moment, he finally addressed them.

“My name is Langdon and I represent The Cooperative,” He started, “I won't sugarcoat the situation.”

They all sat a little straighter, eager to hear him speak. His eyes linger on her and she does not look away, makes sure of it. It was a primal interaction she knew all too well.

“Humanity is on the brink of failure,” Langdon went on, eyes not leaving hers, waiting for her to turn away.

While the existence of “alphas” was debatable and even debunked by the man who coined it, dogs and even cats avert their eyes from their more powerful counterparts. Em would not bow her head to anyone.

“My arrival here,” He continued, finally pulling away, “was _crucial_ to the survival of _civilized_ life on earth. The three other compounds — in Syracuse, New York, Beckley, West Virginia, and San Angelo, Texas — have been overrun and destroyed.”

West Virginia — that’s where Em had been initially placed before some rich benefactor decided their dog was more deserving of her position there. She was lucky The Cooperative even bothered to place her somewhere else. While Texas would have been the next closer outpost to where she was on the east coast, she was honestly quite glad to be where she was. Enough of her life had been spent surrounded by bigoted rednecks.

Langdon went on, “We’ve had no contact from the six international outposts, but we are assuming that they, too, have been eliminated.”

Em bit her lip to keep down the retort that threatened to burst out. A giant fucking ocean and radiation interfering with whatever electrical-waves that could be used for communication ensured little to no communication. She doubted a radioactive pigeon could even survive long enough to make a voyage.

“What happened to the people inside?” Timothy asked across from her. He was the only one that seemed relaxed, leaning against the arm of the chair as he had during every cocktail hour for the past 18 months.

Langdon spared him a fleeting glance, tone light despite the gravity, “Massacred.”

“By who?” Em prompted.

The quick side-eye from the man was enough to tell her that he had heard her, but was _choosing_ not to address her.

He was not shy to deliver the news which he had come here to give them, “The _same_ fate that will befall almost all of you.”

“ _Almost_ all?” A Grey questioned from behind her. Em glanced in the direction of the voice to find the girl that had delivered Em her clothes a few days before. Coco’s friend… though "friend" would be a very loose word.

Once again, Langdon pretended not to hear. Looking at the girl, but not dignifying her with a response.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur,” he said, “We built a failsafe — The Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary?” Coco echoed.

“ _The Sanctuary_ ,” He went on, quickly growing tired of the interruptions, “is unique. It has certain security measures that will prevent overrun.”

Mead made a face at that, clearly bothered by this bit of information, “Excuse me, sir, what measures? Why weren’t we given them?”

“And why weren’t they applied to _all_ outposts?” Em couldn’t help but add, meeting Mead’s gaze which shared a similar glimmer of realization.

When she turned back to the blond, his eyes were boring into her own, raising a hand to silence Mead, “That’s classified.”

He sighed, unable to hide his annoyance, “All that matters is that The Sanctuary will… _survive_ , so the people _inside_ it will survive, so that _humanity_ will survive.”

Andre had looked at the man with contempt from the moment Langdon had entered the room. His eyes flared with anger the other residents were all too familiar with. “Who are the people who are populating it?”

Langdon shook his head, eyes shimmering with something akin to amusement, “… _also_ classified. _However_ , I have been sent to determine if any of you are _worthy_ and _fit_ to join us.”

Chattering filled the room, Coco’s face breaking into a smile as she turned to Gallant and Dinah beaming as she squeezed her son’s hand. Timothy, Em, and Emily could only spare one another silent and concerned looks. They all knew the questions in the minds of the other two. Did wealth factor into their chances? Either was, Em was reluctant to get her hopes up… she had learned that lesson long before the apocalypse.

“The Cooperative has developed a _particular_ and _rigorous_ questioning technique we like to call… _‘Cooperating’_.” Langdon explained, glancing over to them with a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, threatening to grow into something more. “I will _then_ use the information gained to determine _if_ you belong.”

This time, Em could not hold back the quiet scoff that left her. He had to know what he sounded like. His sarcastic tone implied that much… like a CEO on his high horse telling minimum wage workers that if they worked hard enough then they wouldn’t have to worry about rent.

Naturally, Coco was quick to throw a fit and complain. The other residents could practically sense it coming like it was The Force from Star Wars.

“What is this? The _Hunger Games_?” she spat, “This is _bullshit_. I _paid_ my way in here and that is the _only_ cooperating I plan on doing.”

Em sighed and leaned towards Emily, being careful to keep her voice to a whisper, “I think I’d prefer The Hunger games.”

Emily gave her a look, biting her lip to hide the amusement that had begun to show itself on her face.

Langdon waited out the tirade like a parent watching their child throw a tantrum in a Target. Certain it would come to an end, but not quite sure _when_. Part of him even looked shocked at the outburst altogether.

“You don’t have to sit for questioning,” he informed her. Whatever first impression Em would make on this man, she could at the very least assure herself that is wasn’t as bad as Coco’s.

“What happens if we chose not to?” Andre asked.

“Then you stay here and _die_.” Langdon snapped. He had hoped for his message to be implied through his speech, but these people seemed to need their hand held, either too stupid or too lazy to put 2 and 2 together.

“I volunteer to go first!” Gallant proclaimed abruptly, raising his hand into the air.

“And so you shall,” Langdon said with a smirk. Em’s eyes lingered on the hairstylist, making a note to keep her ears to the pavement. The man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life… then again it wouldn’t be past him to tell her the wrong information just to ensure his own salvation.

“The process should only take me a week or so,” Langdon said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, “so you won’t be kept in suspense forever. For those of you who don’t make the cut, all is not lost.”

His eyes scanned over them once more as he held up a vial, “If the worst should happen and feral cannibals come knocking, down one of these.”

There were only a few pills left and they all had to wonder if the vial was once full to the brim, “one minute later, you fall asleep and never wake up.”

Emily’s hand gripped on to Em’s skirt, but Em did not share her concern. She was quite surprised at her relief, tension leaving her shoulders. What was it that Hamlet said — _“To sleep perchance to dream?”_ She was so tired of fighting, but the thought of death was a sobering chill in her bones, an existential fear she could not escape. She was like Jekyll and Hyde, flickering between wanting to live and wanting to fall into an endless slumber.

“I look forward to meeting _each_ and _every_ one of you.”

Langdon left as quick as he had entered, in silence with nothing but the clicking of heels down a hallway to give any sign he was even there at all.

They all sat there, staring at nothing… some of them turning their gaze inward. Em could only wonder what the price of survival was. Right now they were living one day only to make it to the next. It was hell, plain and simple. This ultimatum was simply choosing the lesser of two evils.

All she wanted was to see the sky — the _real_ thing, not a worn photograph frozen in time. But there wasn’t a sky anymore, was there? Just a green haze. The brunette was nothing more than a walking corpse, the dance of day to day life, of cocktail hour and dinners and library sessions, was just a distraction. Who was to say they weren’t leaving one prison to be locked in another?

Sometimes she just wanted to scream until her vocal cords snapped.

* * *

It didn’t take long for the purples to be at each other’s throats. She found it almost morbidly amusing — in the plight to survive they would end up killing one another until no one was left. That was irony, right? Em had become hazy on the exact definition and was too lazy at the moment to search for the answer.

“Well, _smooth_ move asking to go first,” Coco scoffed, turning and glaring at the man beside her as soon as Venable had left the room.

“There’s an old actor’s adage,” Evie sighed, “Either go _first_ or go _last_.”

“You’re not _going_ anywhere,” Coco snipped.

“Are you suggesting that _he_ is going to pass _me_ up?”

“You’re _ancient_! He’s looking for people to _repopulate_ the earth, not fill a _bingo hall_.”

“You know, for someone with the mental capacity of a _3-year-old_ , I suppose _52_ might seem ancient.”

Coco laughed, mocking and without mercy, “You were _52_ when _Elvis_ took his last shit!”

“That’s enough,” Gallant groaned.

“Oh, no.” Evie said, “let her spout. I remember a _wonderful_ lunch that I had with _Dan Tana’s_ with Natalie Wood.”

Coco groaned and pressed her face into a hand she had propped up on the arm of the chair.

“Natalie turned to me and she said,” Evie continued, changing to mock an accent Em couldn’t quite place, “’ _Evie_ , you are a _survivor_. You’re gonna outlive us all.’”

With a flourish of her hand, the old woman procured a fan from somewhere on her person and used it to emphasize her point, “and dear Natalie — she turned out to be right.”

Em’s restraint and sanity were at an end. Whatever thread it had been dangling by snapping as she listened to Gallant and Coco go at the other’s throat, the other residents hardly doing anything to help the situation.

Emily jumped as the brunette next to her suddenly jumped to her feet. Coco opening her mouth to retort to the old woman’s story, but finding herself cut off.

“Shut up!” She cried, “For the _love_ of _god_ , shut up!”

The group went quiet, shocked and looking to another for some explanation. Em wasn’t one to hide her aggravation, but it was mostly aimed at Venable. For the past 18 months, she had been relatively quiet save for her interactions with Emily and Timothy.

“Realistically,” She posed, “What is going to happen to us?”

Coco frowned, “I don’t know about _you_ , but _I’m_ going to be in that sanctuary.”

Evie scoffed, “darling, you have as much of a chance getting into that sanctuary as Stu does.”

Coco narrowed her eyes, “Stu’s _dead_.”

“That’s her point.” Gallant sighed.

“You have no right to speak his name!” Andre snapped before turning and glaring at the old woman, “ _especially_ you!”

“We didn’t eat your boyfriend!” Coco and Gallant snapped back in unison.

Dinah stood and took a spot next to Em who could only roll her eyes at the former star’s antics, “The only way to survive is to work together.”

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Coco groaned, leaning her head back on the couch, “that garbage may have worked in _TV land_ , but this is _real_ life.”

“And _real_ life has need of influencers?” Em scoffed. She was beyond done with this batch of spoiled socialites and tired of holding her tongue in the hopes that one day they may prove useful. “Spare me.”

Coco gaped at her, turning to her and beginning to bop her head again like an angry chicken, “there are 2 types of people in the world: the _influenced_ and the _influencers_.”

Em shook her head, hands coming to her chin as if she was praying, “The _old_ world, you mean.”

“ _Old_ world, _new_ world.” Coco said, “it’s all the same.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Em asked, holding back a laugh.

“Oh, and _you_ have all the answers?”

“No,” Em admitted, coming to stand in front of the fireplace, “but I have _facts_ : most of the people in this room have _no_ applicable skills.”

Coco raised a finger and opened her mouth.

Em held out a hand, pointing at her with the rage of god, “I _swear_ if the word _influencer_ leaves you mouth _one_ more time—”

Whatever Coco saw in the brunette’s eyes was enough to shut her up, eyes going to the ground before her before she glanced at the others. Even Emily was frightened by her friend’s current rampage, looking to Timothy who only shrugged… Em had a point.

“Scientists theorized after World War Three,” Em explained, pacing back and forth, “that _80 percent_ of people would die in the blast and the other _20 percent_ would die in the aftermath.”

“But the Sanctuary—”

Em cut off Gallant, “The only sanctuary we have is in death and _this_ place— ”

She motioned to the room around here, “— _this_ place only prolongs our suffering.”

“Well if you’re so right and whatever why don’t you just _off_ yourself and save _us_ the headache!” Coco snapped.

“Out fingers have the consistency of a carrot,” Em sighed, speaking more to herself than the others, “we could bite it off just as easily… but we don’t.”

“Yeah! Because we’re not _psychos_!”

“Because our _brains_ stop us,” Em said, “When standing at the edge of a tall building some of us feel the urge to jump… not because we’re depressed, not because we want to, but because it is simply there.”

“Are you going to get to the point?” Gallant sighed, pinching his nose and making a motion with his hands to hurry the girl up.

“Humans don’t want to off themselves. Those who do are fighting against every instinct that says otherwise, but—”

Em mimed a gun with two of her fingers and aimed it at Coco, closing one eye as if to get a better shot, “— to kill another is so much easier.”

“You think The Cooperative is just trying to off the 20 percent?” Timothy asked, leaning forward and glancing at Emily.

“Then why leave the others outside in the radiation,” Emily asked, brows pinched together in thought as she glanced between her boyfriend and Em, “Why not let us all die?”

“Because we are human,” Em said, “and humans don’t want to die. They will find whatever reason they can to worm their way to self-preservation.”

Gallant opened his mouth to comment, but the signature sound of a cane hitting hardwood made everyone fall silent. Venable appearing in the doorway, looking less than pleased as she stared at Em, raising her head to look at the woman down her nose.

“To _question_ those who keep us alive is a _flagrant_ show of disrespect,” she said.

“If we do not challenge our perception how are we to survive?” Em posed.

The residents glanced between the two like watching a tennis match where there were knives instead of balls.

Venable straightened ever slightly, “through strong will and respect for the chain of command.”

Em scoffed, “Putting a corset on chaos and hoping it will stay in its confines.”

“You _doubt_ The Cooperative?” Venable asked, taking a step forward.

“I’m entertaining philosophical debate.”

“AKA going bat-shit crazy,” Coco laughed, sparing a look at Gallant who smiled at some unspoken joke.

“Well you got one thing right,” Venable said, banging her cane on the floor to gather the attention of the entire room and looking over each of them one by one, “You’re all expendable.”

Her eyes landed on Em, “something _everyone_ would do well to remember.”

Venable turned around and began to walk away, but Em’s voice made her halt. As always it was smug and mocking. She couldn’t wait for this particular fly to finally be squashed.

“What about you?”

Her voice was firm and resolute, “I am the _only_ thing standing between you and a quick death.”

She didn’t turn to look at Em, but she could practically sense the mocking bow taking place behind her.

“Then I yield to my executioner.”

Venable’s lips twitched into a scowl that she did not pretend to hide, unseen by the crowd behind her.

“Dinner is in an hour,” She spat, “Tardiness will not be accepted for any reason.”

* * *

Timothy and Emily had gathered in the latter’s room, sighing against the other's lips. Emily groaned as he pulled away trying to pull him closer only to be stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

“This one kiss a week is _bullshit_.” She sighed, eyes flickering open as she looked at Timothy through her lashes.

Timothy’s eyes pressed into a line as he looked everywhere but at her, trying to hold on to whatever restraint he had left. “I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Emily spoke again, “I want to get out of here.”

Timothy could only stare at her, praying she wasn’t implying what he thought she was, “What are you talking about?”

Emily stood, the lack of her warmth beside him quickly sobering Timothy to the conversation at hand, “I’m _not_ gonna _wait_ around to find out if Langdon chooses us and I don’t exactly trust him, anyway.”

She was practically beaming as she proposed her plan to him, “I say we steal two rad-suits and some food and take our chances on the road… find the sanctuary ourselves.”

He didn’t even know how to respond to that, leaning back on the bed as he gaped like a fish and gestured out to her in hopes that would spur some epiphany of words. Part of him was annoyed with Em. Put those two together and they’d overtake the outpost if they could.

“ _That_ is _crazy_ ,” was all he could say, quickly searching for something to add after as Emily began to give him that scathing glower, “We don’t… Have you _forgotten_ what it’s _like_ out there?”

“Em would be down in a heartbeat,” Emily tried to persuade.

“Em is less impulsive than you think. She’s _seen_ what cancer does to people… it’s not pretty.”

“I’m not saying we have to rush it,” Emily reassured, walking back to him a kneeling down to grab his hand, “but Langdon made it here okay and he was all alone. He doesn’t exactly look like Mad Max.”

“We don’t even know where The Sanctuary is.”

“ _Maybe_ there’s something in his room that’ll tell us,” Emily said, “Em knows how to use information… she’s a fucking encyclopedia sometimes.”

Timothy was shaking his head but laughed despite himself.

“ _Fine_ ,” he relented, “but only if Em agrees. We’re in this together or not at all.”

Emily was beaming, springing up and hugging him. Timothy gasped as the air was nearly knocked out of him.

“You won’t regret it,” She whispered in his ear.

* * *

With the pressure of impending doom, most of the residents were keeping their heads low. While she felt somewhat embarrassed about her previous rampage, there was some therapeutic relief in it. While she had voiced her complaints before, it had never been so… explosive.

Coco had called her psycho and part of Em couldn’t completely deny it. She had lost time not even an hour before. If things kept going as they were, a much more violent and permanent break would be in her future. The black void in her memory frightened her to no end. It was like being in the blast all over again, alone and surrounded by nothingness as the bombs shook her bones. Em imagined it was what death felt like, but she didn’t like to imagine it for long.

Gallant had his interview which gave them all an hour or so free of drama. Things almost felt peaceful… as peaceful as looming death would allow.

Foolishly, she had begun her free-time looking for the occult book the Three Musketeers had used to terrify Timothy. Now, she sat at a table with medical books strewn around her as she scribbled in her notebook. Medical professionals said not to self-diagnose, but the brunette had a lack of a better option.

Her symptoms included buzzing and loss of time. While it was easy to chalk it up to starvation, something about that prognosis didn’t sit right with her. Unfortunately, with those symptoms alone she might as well have searched on _WebMD_ and chosen the worse possible answer. Cancer, tumors, and all other sorts of daunting diagnoses the first things she came across.

Sighing, Em leaned on her hand and allowed it to pull at her cheeks before running it through her hair. A dead-end stood in front of her, mocking her. She had done everything — read every book she could get her hands on and created detailed notes of every possible diagnosis. Balled up paper surrounded her, each one of them another dead end.

So, eyes tired from reading small print in dim lighting, Em changed course. With a sigh, she pushed aside the medical books and medical notes and pulled towards her the books on agriculture and self-sustainability.

Despite her feelings towards the current states of life and death, the humanity in her urged her to plow forward — to prepare for the worst-case scenario.

She knew what happened in Chernobyl. Every class since pre-k seemed to go over the subject, but Chernobyl was a harmless puppy compared to what they now faced. What happened when the radiation had nowhere to go? Was it even _able_ to dissipate?

Then there was the issue of food. What could they eat when the entire food supply was contaminated? It was possible, she knew that much, but without the Cooperative —

Em was pulled out of her thoughts by the feeling of being watched, hand going to her neck where hairs stood on end. Looking up, she found Langdon standing there, watching her from the end of an aisle. It was unnerving, his stare, like looking into the eyes of a hungry wolf. How long had he been there?

“You’ve wandered away from the heard,” He noted, hands behind his back as he sauntered towards her.

She turned her attention back to her collection of books, sighing at the sudden interruption and heart halting fear Langdon’s sudden presence evoked, “A _heard_ implies we are a collective group.”

He came to a stop by her side cocking his head as he looked at the books piled up around her like a make-shift fort. He made no move to sit. Another power play.

“Aren’t you?” he asked, picking a book from the top of the pile — a medical dictionary. His eyes flickered over some of the pages as he flipped through it. Why would she be looking at medical dictionaries?

Em was quick to organize her notes, scattered here and there. She placed them under the books if only to spare herself from whatever line of questioning they would evoke. Langdon noticed but did not comment.

“Push comes to shove, most of us will turn on the others to survive.” She told him, finally looking at him.

He smirked, catching her subtle slip-up as he placed the dictionary back on its respective pile, “ _us_?”

Her hazel-green eyes flickered back towards her books.

“I don’t particularly _care_ for many of them,” Em sighed, pulling a tome from a pile and opening it to read its index, “and I know _they_ would sacrifice me in a heartbeat.”

“An eye for an eye,” Langdon noted, rounding the table until he stood on her right, taking a seat on the table instead of a chair, “some may call that barbaric.”

“I call it balance,” Em noted, looking up from the book and into his blue eyes. The sight of them made her pause, but only for an instant. “Is this my interview?”

“Do you _want_ it to be?”

“I _think_ it doesn’t matter what I want.”

His eyes narrowed as if trying to find something in her eyes, his head quirking to the side yet again, “then why do you ask?”

Em motioned to the books in front of her, “curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” He noted, waving his hand and looking away from her as he continued, “or so they say.”

“But _satisfaction_ brought it back,” she finished.

A smirk crawled onto his lips and once more he turned his attention to the piles of books before her. His hands went to one of the medical books, opening it and skimming through the pages.

“How many books have you read?” he asked, the simplicity of the question taking her off-guard. Em eyed the book in her hand, small with yellowed pages. She closed it with a snap before turning it this way and that, calculating something in her head.

“Depends on the size,” she admits, “one a day, larger ones maybe a week. Some I’ve re-read. Would you count those as well?”

Michael smiled and shook his head, placing his book back on the pile, “Do you intend to read them all?”

“Personal goal,” she admits, fiddling with her bracelet, “we all need something to get us through the day.”

Michael’s eyes focused on her hands which religiously turned and twisted at the string and beads around her wrist.

“Such a simple thing,” he noted, “I assume it has sentimental value?”

“More like superstition,” she admits, “I was wearing it when I was brought here. It’s a Nazar, meant to ward off the evil eye.”

Michael hummed, eyes not leaving the object, “I’m familiar. When logic cannot prevail humans rely upon— ”

Em went to add something, but they were cut off by the shrieking of the library door. Em turned towards the sound but she could feel Michael’s eye on her.

“Oh!” Coco exclaimed from across the room, laughing with her hand on her heart like she was surprised as she started towards them. A hand went to pat her hair to keep it in place. “I didn’t expect you to be in here!”

Em sighed and rolled her eyes, Michael’s finally leaving her and dragging to Coco as he rose to his feet. Whatever smirk he wore was gone, his expression a stone-like mask. Was he annoyed or was that simply his resting face?

“Having a little party here?” Coco asked, her voice almost painfully nice as a hand motioned to the door behind her to the door, “or is this an _intimate_ affair? Should I go and — “

“No need,” Langdon told her, raising a hand to silence her as he moved towards the door. As he approached Coco he stopped for a moment, eying her up and down, “I have other business to attend to.”

Coco simply stood there, trapped in his gaze until he finally turned back to Em, hands going behind his back. They were always behind his back… as if he were hiding something from them.

“You have enlightened me to some fascinating bits of information. I can’t wait to see what else my interview will extract.”

The room fell eerily silent as he left. Em watched his back, his hands. There was something off about this man… The Cooperative in general. Of all the times not to have internet—

“So what were you two talking about?” Coco asked, Em jumping as the woman seemed to suddenly appear before her. The sickly-sweet voice was back again, flooding Em’s mind with memories from high-school.

“Books,” Em sighed, reorganizing the books. She needed to put away the medical ones and get a few more for her other research… “and what living here is like.”

“Did he say anything about the interview?”

“No.”

Coco scoffed, rolling her eyes, “then my time is wasted.”

In a flurry of huffing and stomping, the woman left the room. Silence took over the library once more as the door slammed shut.

“ _No_ ,” Em sang in a hushed tone, collecting books into her arms and returning them to their proper place, “don’t go.”

Desperation in a den of hungry wolves was dangerous enough, dangle a piece of meat and they would most certainly tear one another to pieces.


	6. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Back with another chapter. Thank you so much for your Kudos and Comments, as always! They really keep me going when I'm hitting a writing block.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: talks of past abuse and suicide attempts

The salon was unnaturally busy since Langdon arrived. Everyone seemed to have the same idea — keep an eye on those who have met with the man and wait for them to let something slip. Thing is, those who already had their interview relished in the spotlight, not really revealing anything of worth. 

It had been three whole days since Langdon arrived and Em could glean nothing from her fellow Purples or even the few Greys that whispered to one other in the hall. They viewed Langdon as the second coming of Christ. She couldn’t blame them. Anything would be heaven when compared to the hell Venable had made for them in the outpost. When she couldn’t harm the Purples, the Greys became her target.

Gallant wasn’t as much of a boast as Em had expected, though he made up for that with smugness masked as humility. He was almost as bad as Coco… though that shouldn’t be much a surprise. 

“So…” Coco started, using the same tone she had with Em the night before, “how do you think it went?”

Gallant was stretched out like a cat on the sofa, leaning back and grabbing a glass of water from the tray of the nearest Grey. 

“I think it went rather well,” he said, cradling his drink as a smile pulled across his face, “and I expect another interview _very_ soon.”

Em sighed and glanced over at Andre and Dinah. They had closed ranks, keeping to themselves. Dinah would do anything to protect herself and her son. If it came down to it, Em wondered how far she would go to survive or if she would give in to the call of the void and jump off the roof.

Em had yet to have her interview… an _official_ one, at least. It made her anxious, being one of the few Purples that had yet to sit with Langdon in his office. It was probably his intention, a fact that did little to comfort her. Her heart still raced in her chest at the thought of dying in this tomb. Her fear of life was at war with her fear of death and she was just waiting for one of them to win.

She was used to the anxiety, though it was difficult to manage at times. Standing up to Venable had been good practice for her nerves though her heart still fell to her stomach every time she dared raise her voice. Old habits die hard, she supposed.

Em scoffed at her own train of thought, a small amused smile coming to her lips as she turned her attention away from the group and towards the ever-burning inferno in the fireplace. It reminded her of that one scene in _The Avengers_ when Bruce Banner turned back and said, _“That’s my secret — I’m always angry.”_

Replace the anger with anxiety and you’d be able to describe her since the day she was born — an anxious ball of nerves.

Around her, they all spoke of interviews, never giving out too much information and repeating the same things over and over and over. Em had seen high-school students after AP exams with more nerve than them. Langdon had to expect talk, literal life and death be damned. Secrets were hard to keep and harder to hide. 

“I just wish there was a _Buzzfeed quiz_ that could at _least_ give a _hint_ at what our fate will be,” Coco bemoaned. Like Em, she had yet to have an interview. The brunette had yet to work out how she felt being put into a similar category as the young heiress.

“The Victorians used to have a game,” Em spoke, closing her eyes as a buzzing fill her head. She rejoined the group, hoping conversation would make it go away. “Women would hold a _candle_ and a _mirror_ and walk down the stairs backward. They’d look through the mirror to see behind them and it was said one would either see the love of their life or their death.”

Em chuckled to herself and looked at Emily, “though given the number of death-by-stairs of that era the irony is—”

The idea, despite her sarcasm, quickly caught on. Any idea to past the time was a good idea, these days — more so given the circumstance. Emily had roped Em into joining the Bloody Mary-esk game.

First to go had been Coco, naturally. Next was Gallant, then Dinah. Andre had refused to join. A game of love and death wasn’t fun when you lost one to the other. Thus, Em found herself standing at the top of the stairs, staring pleadingly at Timothy and Emily to spare her.

The candles of the salon had been put out, leaving only the candles of the upper balcony to light their way. The darkness was still enough to make her uncomfortable. Em felt like she was alone again, screams coming from her phone as the walls shook around her. She liked her nightmares to _stay_ in her sleep.

“ _Really_?” Em groaned as Timothy held out a mirror and candle, “Why can’t I just go to the library and—”

He was grinning clearly enjoying himself, “consider it karma.”

“If I die I will haunt your ass.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

Em opened her mouth to retort only to be cut off from someone down below.

“Don’t be a pussy!” Coco called from the bottom of the stairs, followed by chuckled from her fellow Purples waiting below. Em sent a scathing look towards her friends.

“Alright!” she relented, taking the objects from Timothy, “Fine!”

With a smile, Emily came forward and gently eased her friend to the first step. 

“Have fun,” she whispered, far too amused.

“Oh, fuck off,” Em muttered, smiling despite herself. 

Em used one foot to feel for the edge of the step. Suddenly, memories of being a little girl in gymnastics flew through her mind, feeling for the bar underneath her feet, falling to the hard mat below that smelled like feet. She had quickly learned she wasn’t one for the sport.

She was pulled from autopilot by a flash of gold in the mirror, startling her just enough to miss the step ever slightly, her ankle bending awkwardly and causing her to fall down the last few steps. She could hear the mirror shatter as hands came to steady her fall. Instincts made her favor saving the candle over the wounded ego that awaited her below. If this place were to burn a few bruises would be the least of her concerns. The thought of it alone scared her half to death, the menace of fireplaces and large skirts with far too many layers. 

It took a moment for Em to realize she was on solid ground, quickly jumping back from the hands that were resting on her arms. Langdon stood there, unfazed and patient as a saint. His hands returned behind his back as he let her gather her bearings.

The room was silent, everyone watching with wide eyes. Emily stood at the top of the steps, mouth still wide with a gasp behind her hands. Langdon seemed to be waiting for her to speak, waiting for anyone else to break to silence. He wanted to see who would break.

“Well that’s one hell of an entrance,” Gallant said with a laugh, leaning on the banister next to Coco and the rest of the Purples. 

Em and Langdon simply stared at one another. She saw his lip quirk ever slightly when the hairdresser spoke — annoyance.

Langdon finally spoke, ignoring the man behind him, “It’s time for your interview.”

He strode past her and she followed. She may have a rocky relationship with life, but she was no fool.

* * *

Sitting in that chair made her feel like she was about to be swallowed whole. If not for the corset holding her spine as straight as a ruler, she’d be tempted to slouch into it and allow herself to be consumed.

Langdon liked to let things sit, she realized. Sometimes the best first move was no move at all. The anxiety in her made her want to fill the silence, spare herself from doing _nothing_ as he pulled out his files. Her toe tapped in her shoe, but that was all the fidgeting she’d allow herself to do. Everything was a test. For once, her anxiety was serving her well. 

Tossing a file on the desk he took a seat across from her. His hands rested on the arms of his chair and he leaned back, cocking his head as he watched her.

“What is your sexual orientation?” he finally asked.

“Flexible.”

He almost seemed to smirk, but the lights liked to play tricks on her, “I require a more specific answer… you understand.”

“I’m on the asexual spectrum,” she answers, “but I am romantically interested in both men and women.”

“So you have no desires of the flesh?”

“An idea is better than reality. It’s a spectrum and...it’s complicated.”

He leaned forward on his chair, “so you _do_ experience attraction.”

“Emotionally, yes, but I’ve found relationships to be… stressful.”

This seemed to intrigue him, his head turning. It kind of reminded her of a dog, narrowing in on a sound or a curiosity. 

“ _Stressful_?”

Of all the questions — of all the _tics_ to have... _damn_ her anxious rambling. 

“Like I said,” Em repeated, “ideas are better than reality. I’ve tried the whole…”

She gestured to nothing in particular, “… _dating_ thing. Every time I try and get into a relationship it just feels… _wrong_.”

Langdon looked down at the file he had out, “and when was your last relationship?”

Em sighed, “Is that really important?”

“Let me be very clear,” Langdon spoke, voice betraying his aggravation as he placed both hands on the desk, “Your success in these interviews depends on your honesty. If you _hedge,_ I will know. If you _lie,_ I will know. If you try to trick me, I will know, and this interview will be over.”

“And I’ll _die_ ,” she finished for him, “ _suspected_ as much.”

“Good,” Michael said with a nod, retreating back in his seat, “now, as to my question.”

Em waved a dismissive hand, “My last date was a while before the bombs. Didn’t work out.”

Langdon’s face was once again an iron and unreadable mask as he wrote something down. The corner of his lip twitched as if he hadn’t gotten the answer he wanted.

“What?” She found herself asking him, “I thought such an answer would please you — narrow down the pool of survivors to those... _better_ at those sorts of things..”

His eyes trained on the file, giving Em the sense that he was more focused on it that her words, “Just because you have no _desire_ to copulate with a man doesn’t mean you _can’t_ repopulate.”

Em could only shake her head, “god, you make childbirth sound worse than I imagine it to be.”

“There are no gods here,” he was quick to correct, “this is the apocalypse. Those who survived the fire have been abandoned.”

This time Em cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowing ever slightly as she tried to figure him out, “for a man who seems so _opposed_ to the thought of god you certainly know your bible facts.”

Michael smirked and clicked his pen, bringing the file to his lap, “only the parts that interest me.”

He quickly went back to questioning her, voice sounding more robotic as he read the question word for word.

“How, exactly, do you feel about childbirth?”

He looked up at her as she paused, a brow raising at her silence. Em bit her lip as she considered what to say, hands reflexively going to her hair as he continued to stare.

“It terrifies me,” She admitted, “but luckily the brain masks the memory of it due to trauma.”

“What about it terrifies you?”

She thought such an answer would be obvious, “The _pain_.”

Once again he seemed interested in her words, expression full of judgment, “ _you_ fear pain?”

“I’d be _foolish_ not to.”

“Some would argue that it is a sign of weakness,” he noted.

“Courage is not the ability to be fearless, but to continue on despite the fear,” she told him, voice steady with the words she had told herself a million times before, “we _fear_ pain because that _fear_ keeps us alive.”

“What else do you fear?” He asked, once again leaning forward.

“Quite a few things,” Em said, leaning back in her chair as she became more comfortable. Rambling was equally a tic and a coping mechanism. Langdon intended to that to his advantage. “Some rational… some irrational.”

“Such as?” 

“ _Rational_ or _irrational_?”

“Either.”

“Spiders, roaches,” she lists, looking up at the ceiling as she thought, “typical, I know. Then again, roaches may have survived this nuclear winter so perhaps not so irrational as one would think.”

The amusement seemed to return to Langdon’s eyes. He dipped his head down to hide his expression from her, but she had already seen enough.

“…Dolls,” she admitted after a pause, “creepy little things.”

He didn’t move to speak so she filled the silence for him, “Psychologists say it’s because they are not quite human. Our minds can’t decide between viewing them as objects or beings… subconscious and all that. _The uncanny valley_ , I think they call it.”

Her voice trailed off. She knew how she sounded rambling off facts. Langdon looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Deeps waters so dark you can’t see your feet,” She continued to list, voice growing more distant the deeper she dove into her own mind, “yelling men, death.”

“What about death scares you?” 

Silence, then finally an answer, “Becoming nothing.”

“You don’t believe in god.”

Not a question. Em sighed. This was always a difficult conversation to have. “I _believe_ that _I_ cannot claim there _is_ a god.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am mortal... human”

Langdon hummed, jotting something down before he looked back to her. They both sat in silence until Langdon broke from her gaze, flipping through the files. No doubt hunting for more questions.

“Does it really feel like falling asleep?” She asked before she could think, “the poison in those vials?”

“Why would I lie to you?” he countered, offense glinting in his eye as he looked up at her.

“It’s not that you _lie_ ,” She corrected, shaking her head, “but that you don’t _know_ the truth yourself. Lethal injections were _supposed_ to be painless, but they merely gave the _appearance_ of a calm death.”

“The pain… and nothingness,” he notes, referencing her previous words, “...things you fear... You seem quite convinced of a void-like afterlife.”

“I tried to kill myself when I was young.” She admitted, not sure why. The words just left her.

Langdon halted in his actions. His voice was quiet, almost sympathetic. “How young?”

“Which time?”

He was quick to change the conversation, raising to his feet and crossing the room. Em didn’t take her eyes off him, partly out of intrigue and partly out of paranoia. There was a table with a water pitcher and some glasses. He filled up two and turned around, stopping by her chair and holding out one of the glasses.

Hesitant, she reached out and took it from his hands. Langdon noted she made special care not to touch his hand.

“You’ve spoken of fear... But what about your anger?” he prompted, choosing to lean against the desk instead of returning to his chair. Em waited for him to take a sip of his drink before she did.

“The two are often related,” she noted.

“That they are.” He agreed before insisting, the fire in the room more prominent in his eyes, “tell me... what enrages you?”

“Generally?” She countered, “or specifically?”

He smiled and shook his head, “either.”

“Anger and any emotion come at random. It cannot be controlled.”

“Have you ever lost control?”

“Yes, but it was long ago.”

“How long?”

“I was a child,” she said, frowning as she was forced to remember bits of her past she had buried long ago… burned from her mind, “yet to learn that anger is fine as long as you know how to manage it.”

“What did you do?”

“Tried to bash someone’s head into a concrete floor,” she told him with a frown. It certainly wasn’t one of her finer moments. One that she regretted deeply.

“What was their crime?” Langdon pressed, far too amused than was healthy. He really was insistent about everything, wasn’t he? 

She looked to her glass as she pulled the memory out, a rueful grin pulling at her lips, “stealing a dress-up shoe.”

When she looked up at the man she couldn’t help but laugh, a short laugh but a laugh none the less. It threw the man off, staring at her like she had grown an extra head. 

“That amuses you?”

“You’re expression,” she said, “you were obviously expecting _something_ more. I was a child, in my defense.”

“And when you weren’t a child?”

He watched as something flashed in her eyes, a familiar fire. Langdon’s face suddenly wasn’t all that amusing.

“I learned that violence isn’t the only way to hurt someone.”

“But certainly _is_ the most satisfying,” he sighed, taking another sip of water, “wouldn’t you agree?”

“A martyr would see their death as a triumph,” Em reasoned, “to deny them that death would be _far_ more painful.”

“And your father,” he noted, closing the file. Em’s jaw clenches at the mere mention of the man. Langdon knew he hit an Achilles heel. “What punishment is worthy of him?”

Em stared at the file before him. She wasn’t stupid. He probably had any and all documentation of her life from therapy sessions to many angry written tweets. 

If she was being honest, she hadn’t thought of the man since the apocalypse. There were more threatening dangers than a narcissistic, vile — 

Her answer comes quicker than Langdon expected. Her eyes meeting his full of hate and fury.

“To spend the rest of his days slowly _rotting_ from radiation. To be _helpless_ and forced to face that even the _smartest_ men are at the _whims_ of the world around them.”

This was the answer he was looking for.

He was looking right into her mind and reading her thoughts... or at least that’s how it felt. Langdon was diving deep into the parts of herself she buried down, raising them up like some sort of psychological necromancer.

“Fascinating,” He leaned forward with a sadistic grin. “Tell me more about him.”

The tenseness in Em’s body was no longer from anxiety, but restraint. The mere mention of _that man_ was enough to make her see red. There was a reason she hated Venable. The over-seer was far too similar to the man she’d prefer to forget.

“I’d rather not,” she told Langdon, hoping he’d let it rest. She wasn’t even surprised at his pushing.

“Why?”

“I don’t _want_ to.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because remembering gives him more power over my life than I want him to have!” She snarled, a pale, tightly clenched fist coming to slam into the arm of her chair. It sat there for a moment before shaking fingers curled away from the palm of her hand.

His hand reached out to hers, curled around the arm of her chair like a claw. The blond waited for her tension to cease, the white around her knuckles to disappear. 

“What did he do to you?”

Her rage quickly returned and she snatched her hand from the man, hissing “What does _that_ have to do with survival?”

“A great deal,” he explained, unfazed as always, “our past traumas can be indicative of future actions.”

He let her seethe in silence. She knew she would not be able to leave the room until she gave him the answer he wanted. 

“The first memory I have of him,” she proceeded, speaking slowly as the words threatened to rip her apart, “he grabbed my arms so tight I thought they’d break and screamed at me after I dropped a glass of milk.”

“How old were you?”

She shook her head and offered a half-hearted shrug, “the counters were taller than I was.”

When she finally leaned back in her seat all Langdon could see was a scared shell of a child trying to hide from the bogey-man. What would emerge from the tightly wrapped cocoon of trauma? Or had the creature already spread its wings?

“What else?”

Langdon’s voice was gentle, but she was not buying the act. 

“Isn’t that enough!” she snapped, “Every _word_ that left my mouth and every _step_ I took was like _walking_ on _eggshells_.”

She shook her head, a buzz beginning to fill her body, “and I wish I broke more of them instead of being afraid. I wish I-”

Langdon rounded her chair and squeezed her shoulder, the other pulling out a handkerchief and holding it out to her. She only pulled away from his touch.

“You don’t like physical affection,” he noted.

“Not from _strangers_.”

Langdon took a step back, curling the handkerchief around his fingers as he returned them behind his back.

“A physical examination is also required,” he said, voice back to the no-nonsense tone he addressed everyone with. “I can call Venable if you prefer but we _both_ know she would not be fair in her examination.”

“My mom was a nurse,” Em said, turning to the man who stood just to her right, “A physical exam doesn’t mean what you are implying. So unless you’re going to test my blood and record my weight for your _file_ —”

“Your _file_ says you have a history with illness,” Langdon noted, grabbing it off his desk.

“Father smoked when I was a kid. Didn’t care about his own lungs and _certainly_ didn’t care about mine.”

“What about your migraines?” he asked, reading down the list.

“Not terrible, but not entirely pleasant, either.”

“And your depression?”

Em scoffed, “it’s the _end_ of the _world_. We’re _all_ depressed.

Closing the file, he tossed it back onto his desk, “you’re the only one here that does not have a companion.”

Emotionally and physically tired, Em was ready for the interview to end. Survival or not, the line of questioning was lengthy and intense. 

“We’re all companions,” She said, forcing a smile she usually saved for customer service or Coco, “are we not?”

“Not in a _deep_ manner,” he noted, “Venable has Mead, Coco has Gallant, so on and so forth. Perhaps not the companions they wished for, but companions none the less.”

“I have _Emily_.”

Langdon shrugged, sitting in his chair like a kind on his throne. “When she’s not with Timothy.”

“You seem to watch us quite closely.”

 _“I’m_ tasked with choosing the people who keep the human race alive.” He said, enthusiastically gesturing to the world around them with a small turn, “I must comb through the choices with a fine-toothed comb.”

The blond had expected tears from her. He had worked his way up to the most important questions, the most emotional scarring memories… but she sat there, dry-eyed and looking like she’d rather toss him into the nearest fireplace than deal with any more of his questions.

“I am _content_ with my own company,” She insisted.

He came back to her seat and caged her in her seat, hands on either armrest, “I thought we agreed not to _lie_ , Emily.”

Nostrils flaring and eyes full of fire, she leaned forward until she was almost nose to nose with the man, gaze unwavering, “I’m _not_ lying.”

He eyed her up and down in a way that made her feel like he was looking into her head or skinning her alive with his mind. Finally, he retreated. “Loneliness _emanates_ from you in waves.”

“I said I was _content_ in my own company, not that I _liked_ being alone.”

Langdon’s brows knitted together, “are they not the same thing?”

“They are intertwined,” she told him, “but can exist separately. Thoreau wrote about it… _Solitude_ I think he called it.”

“Are you lonely?”

“I think we all are… some of us just deal with it better than others.”

“And how are you dealing with it?”

He seemed to cling onto her words when she spoke. Timothy, Emily, and herself loved to speculate on philosophy and the nature of their own humanity, but the other two were more of scientific minds than poetic. Talking to Michael… well, she didn’t know how to feel. 

“One must learn to be content with their own company before they can be content in the company of others,” Em said, “I try to think of it as some sort of test of character.”

“But are you _content?_ ”

Em smiled at the question, whatever doubt or anxiety in her bones completely gone and replaced with something Langdon couldn’t quite place.

“Never.”

* * *

“Thank you for your time,” Landon said, holding the door open for her to leave.

The interview had felt like an eternity and an instant all at once. Em kept her distance from him as she passed through the door.

“Is that a genuine sentiment or a warning of my possible demise?” 

Langdon smirked, “it’s whatever you want it to be.”

She scoffed. It was a stretch to expect any answers from the man. He went to speak once more, but something down the hall caught his attention down the hall. 

Stepping back, his features went blank. “Until next time.”

Em glanced down the hall to see Emily just standing there, lips twisting as she waited for her friend to get closer. When the brunette glanced behind her, she found the door to Langdon’s office closed. Lips pressing into a thin line, she made her way over to Emily.

As soon as Em was within reach, Emily was pulling at her arm and glancing over her shoulder like Langdon was hot on their heels. 

“How was your interview?” she asked. 

“How was yours,” Em countered with a smile which quickly fell as she saw her friends face. “… what’s going on?”

Already tripping over her own feet as Emily tugged her along, she nearly toppled over as the girl pulled her into a nearby room. Em had barely a moment to right herself as her friend shut and locked the door behind them.

“We have… varying opinions,” Emily finally answered, glancing at Timothy. Em nearly jumped at the sudden presence of the boy leaning against a table with his arms crossed. It looked like a sort of break room… or at least where Venable was staring excess tables and chairs. There was a surprising lack of order to the objects strewn about… definitely storage. 

Em righted herself, brushing out her skirt as she looked between the pair. “Which are?”

“Emily thinks we should make a run for it.”

“Timothy!”

Em sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance as Emily stared daggers at her boyfriend. She had planned to gradually work up to her proposal, but Timothy wanted to get this over with before anyone noticed their disappearance. 

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” Em sighed. Timothy made a small gesture to her before giving Emily a look that screamed _‘I told you so.’_

“Langdon survived!” Emily tried to reason, looking between the pair, “so can we!”

“ _Langdon_ has access to more _resources_ than we do,” Em said.

“We’re smart. We can—”

“Figure it out? Emily, we can’t even figure out how our _own_ outpost is run and, _trust_ me, I’ve _tried_.”

Emily was exasperated, looking at the other two as if they had lost their fucking minds.

“We can’t just _sit_ here and _wait_ to _die_!”

Em pinched her brow, feeling the buzzing feeling return once more, “I’m not putting my _life_ on the line to play hero like were in some YA novel.”

“That’s what I said,” Timothy sighed.”

Emily was livid, gaping for a moment before throwing her arms up in anger. Her hands came to rest upon her head as she paced back and forth. 

“What’s _with_ you two?” She demanded, gesturing violently at Em, “ _you_ practically _jump_ at the opportunity to oppose Venable!”

“This is _bigger_ than airing someone’s bullshit,” Em said, trying to keep her voice even and calm, “It’s _suicide_. Have you _forgotten_ the state of the world?”

“Have you forgotten _the world_?” Emily countered, “it wasn’t great but there were rules, opportunity… _order_.”

Timothy could only look between the two women as they engaged in debate. Things were stressful enough. Last thing they needed was to tear the other apart.

“I’m _not_ saying our situation is great. But if _we_ try to _leave_ , _we_ _die_. Plain and simple.”

“Not if we have a plan,” Timothy finally spoke, both girls finally turning to face him.

“Langdon…” He spoke, taking a moment to find the words, “there’s something _wrong_ about him. I don’t trust him.”

Em scoffed, blood still boiling, “tell us something we _don’t_ know.”

“Those snakes were _dead_!” He exclaimed. Em’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t wrong, but none of them could even begin to find out what it meant… if it meant anything at all.

“So Langdon is a necromancer,” Emily sighed, shaking her head at the absurdity of this new argument, “ _how_ does that _change_ anything?”

“We don’t have to die here,” Timothy said, looking between the two, “we wait and then follow him to the sanctuary.”

“And how do we get in?” Em said, nose scrunching as she thought of a million ways the plan could go wrong, “security protocols here sound an alarm if you simply come within a football field distance of the outpost.”

“How do you—?”

The brunette waved a dismissive hand, “it helps to be nice to the prison guards.”

“We need to act,” Emily emphasized for what felt like the hundredth time.

“We need to get all the facts!” Timothy countered.

“We _need_ to wait!” Em snapped. She was tired and emotionally spent and _done_ with this conversation. “I don’t want to die without a fight, but we need to keep our heads low. It’s barely even been a week. We’ve all only had one interview.”

“ _Time_ is running out,” Emily hissed, leaning on the table and looking like she was going to strangle the girl on the other side.

 _“Time_ will run out faster if _anyone_ hears a single _word_ of this conversation! I won’t _die_ because of a misstep!”

“Whose _side_ are _you_ on?”

“Mine!” Em practically shouted, “just like everyone else in this fucking place!”

Emily scoffed, stepping back and crossing her arms, “so we’re just scraps.”

“That’s not what she’s saying,” Timothy reasoned, reaching out for his girlfriend who only pulled away from his touch.

“Whatever,” she huffed, rounding the table and glaring daggers at Em as she stormed out of the room, “if _you_ won’t do something, _I_ will.”

The buzzing in Em’s head intensified as Emily slammed the door shut behind her. She rose a hand to ease the headache that threatened to appear, a flash of light exploding behind her eyes. For a moment she swore she saw something — Emily and Timothy… eyes staring blankly at the ceiling with foaming mouths. 

Em moved towards the door, hoping to try and reason with the other girl, but was stopped by a hand on her arm. Timothy smiled at her, expression pity-filled and tired. 

“I’ll talk to her.” He reassured, “Don’t worry.”

Em could only sigh, “I don’t want her to die a martyr, but if we act too hastily that’s what she’ll become.”

“Just let her cool down. Her interview… _all_ our interviews have us on edge.”

* * *

Em stared up at the ceiling as she laid in her bed. She used to do that back when the world was alive, listen to the passing cars and people outside her window… the birds chirping and the breeze dancing through the trees. Now there was just silence… so much she could hear her blood pounding in her ears. Desperately, she tried to recall the sounds — like the faces of the dead, they had faded from her mind.

The fight with Emily had her worried. Friends fought… that was just reality and you couldn’t spend a year and some change in quarantine with someone and _not_ get annoyed with them at some point. But this fight… it wasn’t over something simple — a tendency to be late or forgetting a birthday.

With a sigh, Em sat up and stared at the floor instead of the ceiling. This was why she did things on her own. It certainly made executive decisions easier. The greater good was all Emily cared about, but Em…

She was so tired of sacrificing herself for others… for the grander design. It was what she did all her life. Em kept quiet about her father because he was the only hope she had of getting through college. She let people use her again and again in the name of friendship, draining her dry until there was nothing left but sunken remains.

Michael was right. Everyone else had someone to rely upon. Em had to look after herself. 

Em focused on the feel of her hands on her hair, fretting at the ends. She frowned at the roughness of the ends — overdue for a trim. Reaching back towards her desk, Em paused. Venable had confiscated her sewing kit, scissors and all, on the pretense of “hoarding supplies.”

Sitting for a moment, she reluctantly rose to her feet and wandered down the hall. Each step she questioned her judgment, but still, her hand rose to knock at Gallant’s door.

“Ugh,” a voice groaned on the other side, “what?”

Twisting the doorknob, Em poked her head into the room. Gallant had been laying in his bed, now propped up on one side as he looked at her.

“Can I borrow your scissors?” she asked.

He looked her up and down, “why?”

“I want to do arts and crafts,” she found herself saying, deadpan.

The hairdresser’s face contorted into disgust, “those are _quality_ —”

Em rolled her eyes, “calm down, I just want to trim my split ends and the supplied conditioner really isn’t helping.”

Gallant finally rose to his feet.

“Do you even _know_ how to use them?”

“They’re _scissors_.”

This time he rolled his eyes, wandering over to his vanity and motioning for her to sit down. She eyed him, coming into the room but not moving to the chair.

Gallant sighed, “this is a one time offer.”

“You’re petty, Gallant.”

He shrugged his shoulders, not moving to deny the fact as he arranged his tools, “ _and_?”

“How do I know you won’t make me look like a soccer mom asking for the manager at McDonald’s.”

The man smirked and waved a comb in her direction, “because _hair_ is the one thing I hold sacred in this cesspool of an apocalypse.”

Em eyed him for a moment before wandering over to the chair and sitting down. Gallant looked at her, obviously not expecting her decision. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”

“I know where you sleep.”

She could see Gallant smirking in the mirror, “ _touche_.”

He continued to get his supplies ready before analyzing her hair. 

“How was your interview?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“Tense. Yours?”

He shrugged, searching through his drawer for something, “alright. I guess. It’s not like we have a basis for comparison.”

“It feels like he’s reading your thoughts,” She found herself saying without thinking.

“Yeah,” Gallant chuckled, “it’s like he has fucking x-ray vision.”

“Remember when they used to have those spy-devices marketed to kids?” Em recalled, earning another amused smile from the hairdresser.

“You think Langdon’s following us around with a nice iPhone attached to a toy car?” Gallant asked, leaning on the back of the chair with his other hand on his hip.

“What if this whole place is bugged?”

“Normally I’d say you sounded like you were on LSD, but I wouldn’t doubt it.” He admitted, “might as well put on a show, right?”

“What if it’s like the fucking Hunger Games and we’re the entertainment.”

Gallant laughed, “this whole thing makes me feel like I’m in an indie-film fest.”

Finally, he began to work on her hair. Hands ran through the locks, figuring out the texture and thickness. 

“How is your hair so soft?” He asked, running through it with a comb for good measure.

“Virgin hair.”

“You’re telling me you _never_ styled your hair.”

“I never had to,” Em shrugged, “internet was full of natural solutions.”

She looked up at him without craning her neck, “rag-curls were a godsend.”

Gallant paused and made a face, “but is the stiff neck _really_ worth it?”

“It is if you do it right.”

The man laughed, “I like you.”

They lapsed into silence once again, Gallant getting lost in the task at hand while Em wandered in her own thoughts.

“I used to have a friend who did hair,” She found herself telling him, “just graduated from cosmetology school. We’ve been friends… were friends for almost _11_ years.”

Gallant was only partly paying attention to the conversation, “Was she any good?”

“Chopped off my hair right before the bombs dropped,” Em said, a sad smile pulling at her lips, “shit used to be down to my waist.”

“Ballsy,” Gallant approved, “I like it. Feels like I kept getting clients all asking for the same thing _over_ and _over_.”

“What about Coco?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I love her, but at the end of the day she’s another straight white girl. They never take risks.”

“To their defense, the first time I got a short cut my stylist made me look like I was wearing a fucking bowl.” Em chuckled, “Took me three fucking years to grow back.”

He fluffed her hair a bit, running a brush through it a couple more times before looking at her through the mirror, “Well, I might not have a mister, but I think I did a damn good job.”

Em smiled, “thanks, gallant.”

“Like I said, hair is my passion,” He took the towel from around her neck and shook it out, ”and working without modern appliances is now a personal challenge.”

She ran her hand through her hair, turning in her chair to look at the man as he put his supplies away, “They did some weird shit for hair in the Victorian era.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“About the hair?”

“About the fact that you _know_ about the hair.”

“Like I said: I’m an insomniac and things get weird on _YouTube._ You want to hear or not?”

Gallant shrugged, “not like I have anywhere else to be.”

Em smiled and went into her explanation, Gallant sitting on his bed facing her.

“So they used to collect wads of hair from haircuts or just natural shedding and they’d use them either as plats or to give more volume… kind of like those ‘insta-bun’ infomercial stuff—”

Gallant was surprisingly attentive to her words, for once actually listening. Sometimes he’d even ask questions. At some point, he gasped and jumped to his feet. 

“You gave me an idea!” he exclaimed, rushing over and turning her to face back towards the mirror, “Stay still!”

“What are you—”

“I need a guinea pig.”

“You’re not going to cut all my hair off, are you?”

“Like you said: you know where I sleep, but,” He mused, “your historical knowledge has given me a way to do this one hairstyle without blow-drying and I want to see if it works.”

Em sighed and looked back towards the mirror, “just don’t make me parade around like a model.”

“Your sacrifice is noted.” Gallant said, “besides, it’s not like there’s anywhere else for you to be.”

* * *

Em scratched at her scalp, still sore from Gallants tugging. The library was quiet, anatomy books scattered around her without a single sight of Timothy or Emily. She imagined the latter was still calming down. God, it hadn’t even been a full day yet.

She looked between the books before her and her sketches. The apocalypse had given her ample time to do studies of all the things she’d always put off. Her sketchbook nearly full, she wondered what she’d do once the final page was completed. At this point, she imagined she didn’t have to worry too much about that.

“You like to read,” A voice mused. This time she didn’t jump, head turning to Langdon as he appeared before her.

“I feel like we’ve already had this conversation.”

He chuckled, “I have to admit, I thought it was performance theater.”

“It’s not like I have a job or anything to pass the time,” she noted, “and there’s no internet.”

Cocking his head, he peered at her drawings from over her shoulder. Em gritted her teeth and tried to not show how much the action bothered her.

“Here to collect me for another interview?” she asked.

He hummed, taking a moment to process her question before responding, “merely observing.”

She closed her sketchbook, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

“Why don’t I believe that?”

Another smile was her only response.

“You never mentioned your mother.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t another interview.”

“I said I wasn’t _collecting_ you for another interview,” he noted, coming to sit in the chair beside her, “I’m simply curious.”

“Your curiosity could lead to my own damnation,” Em turned to face him, her shoulder nearly brushing his, “a way to put me under a fine-toothed comb.”

“Curiosity killed the cat?” he offered.

“I’d use the word ‘murdered,’” she scoffed, “don’t know how the rest of the rhyme would apply, however.”

Langdon wasn’t amused… or at least didn’t let it show, “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Yes,” she said, “last thing I want to do is start in a new world with the shadow of my parents looming over my head.”

“They only loom if you give them the power to do so.”

Em sighed, yielding to her executioner.

“My mother was a co-dependent,” she said, the words rushing out as if they couldn’t get out fast enough, “too afraid to be alone that she’d put up with the worst of men instead of leading a fulfilling life on her own.”

“You blame her,” Michael noted, propping his head on his hand.

“I could have excused the desperation,” Em made abundantly clear, “if she hadn’t emotionally abused me as well — gaslighting and the like.”

“You’d rather be a punching bag?”

“Visible scars are easier to prove in court than those confined to your mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching as she rearranged the books. She was doing anything to not meet his gaze.

“What about you?” she finally asked.

His eyes narrowed ever slightly.

“What about me?” he echoed.

“Who is Mr. Langdon?” she asked before gesturing in front of her, “forgive me, I don’t have a file to reference.”

Langdon smirked. He liked this confidence she was showing. It was as if the end of the world had come about so she could thrive, unafraid and confident.

“Are you trying to interview me?” he asked.

“I may be a dead woman in the next few days,” Em reminded, “humor me.”

Langdon leaned forward once more, “What do you wish to know?”

“What do you fear?”

She noted the look wished flashed before his eyes, a memory… unsavory… traumatic. All Langdon could think of was the voice of Ben Harmon and the wrinkled face of an old woman, the scent of cigarettes and liquor coming from her dead mouth.

_“I never could have helped you,” Ben spoke, looking down upon him with disgust._

“Loneliness,” He tells the woman before him, straightening a bit in his chair as he fought to keep the passive facade he wore.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” she mocked, pulling a smile to his lips, “One would think you are a god, but you are just as human as the rest of us.”

“You think I’m a _god_?” 

“You hold yourself like one,” Em observed, noting his smugness. His smile faded as she went on. “and I don’t mean it as a compliment.”

She watched Langdon’s lips pressed into a thin line, “Then what _do_ you mean?”

“You’re condescending.”

He scoffed, “ _Gallant_ is condescending.”

“But he doesn’t hold our lives in his hands— thank god.”

This time she leaned closer to him, mirroring his previous movements and propping her head on her hand, “knowledge is power and you have done a fine job at keeping that knowledge from us.”

His eyes scanned over her face, “it’s for the best of the human race.”

“And what do you believe is best?” she asked, “what _world_ do you envision?”

A smirk crawled back onto his face, “that’s classified.”

This time she studied him.

“You must hold a high position in this sanctuary.” She observed, “higher than Venable… perhaps even those above _her_ as well.”

“And how do you come to that conclusion.”

“Personal opinions aren’t classified,” She leaned back, putting some distance between them, “but opinions of the larger whole are another nature entirely.”

“Or I could be condescending.”

Langdon watched as she smiled ever slightly. It unnerved him… like she had seen something he hadn’t meant her to.

“… Or you could be condescending,” Em echoed. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. “For someone so afraid of loneliness you seem to have backed yourself into quite the corner.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. She watched him, completely at ease despite her interrogation. It was as if he always had a knife behind his back ready to impale someone upon it.

“You have some plan, then?”

“If you’re prepared for the worst then you’re ready for the best.”

“A good mentality to live by,” Em nodded, “but speaking of preparation brings up more questions.”

“Such as?”

“This place is made for us to survive the nuclear winter,” she notes, “but it is so unequipped for the task.”

Langdon raised a brow, “you think you could do better?”

“Yes,” she answered quite quickly and resolutely, “natural light, for one.”

“On what electricity?” he prompted.

“Hydro-electricity, wind,” she says, “ _batteries,_ even.”

He scoffed, “you make it sound easy.”

“You’re part of a doomsday group,” Em reminded him, “For fuck's sake, even the _government_ has a library of seeds for this situation. Self-sustainability is the most important part of our survival.”

Langdon shook his head and laughed before looking at her once more, “oh, I _like_ you.”

Em eyed him, “I’m afraid I haven’t quite decided if the feeling is mutual.”

“Most of you are so preoccupied with winning I was starting to doubt the efficiency of The Cooperation,” he says, “salivating like dogs over the last bone.”

“Desperation certainly gives insight into true natures.”

“That it does.”

Langdon rose from his seat, straightening out his jacket before walking towards the door, “I look forward to speaking to you again.”

Mulling over his words, Em stayed only momentarily — long enough that she wouldn’t run into the man again on her way out. Though she didn’t put it past him to lay in wait at the door. Collecting the books before her, she began to put them away.

She knew the library like the back of her hand now. Organized it herself. The Cooperative didn’t seem to care what order the books were put in, a testament to their last-minute planning. The brunette didn’t mind it. There was little to do to amuse oneself these days. 

When she finally meandered back to the table, she found a book wide open on its surface. Chalking it up to her own forgetfulness she approached, brows furrowing as she realized which book it was.

Turning around, she looked for a sign of any sign of Emily or even Langdon. Mind games were certainly the latter's forte. Every hair on her body was standing on end, goosebumps rising on her arm and she turned and turned, looking for a sign of a single soul.

Finally, heart hammering in her chest, she approached the book. It was opened to another spell she hadn’t noticed before, meant for finding something lost.

“ _Quod est super me manus quondam sciebant_ ,” she mouthed as she read, “ _revertere ad me quid suo mihi admondum est alicui licentiam_.”

She shrieked as the candles went out around her, an echoing chorus coming from outside the library as a gust of wind raced throughout the outpost. Hands went to cover her head as she crouched on the ground as if she expected the world to cave in around her.

Her heart wanted to burst from her chest, eyes frantically looking here and there only to find nothing.

“Emily?” She called out, voice cracking in fear, “Timothy?”

All she could hear was the screaming voices, begging for salvation. Whimpering, she backed up until she could feel a wall, slowly sinking to the floor as she covered her ears which did nothing to drown out the screaming that echoed in her head. 

Timothy was right, something was wrong about this place.


	7. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you for your continued support! Seeing your comments always inspires me to keep writing. I literally look at them whenever I'm feeling bad about my writing and they pep me up and encourage me to keep working.

Em and Timothy stood in the hall, Grey’s bustling around them, the occasional Purple or Warden passing them by with a sideways glance. It had been two days and Emily still hadn’t spoken a word to Em, making her feel isolated from the pair. She didn’t want to admit the truth in Langdon’s statement — she’d find a way to reconcile with the other girl even if it was out of spite.

“She’s coming around,” Timothy assured her, “ _you_ could always talk to her, you know?”

“She likes you more,” Em said, Timothy shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You two are not great at admitting our mistakes, are you?”

“I stand by my words,” Em informed him, “and I won’t apologize unless it is sincere.”

Timothy sighed, understanding her reasoning but none the less finding the situation stressful. Emily had given him the same response only hours earlier. The two were remarkably similar, only diverging in small, almost microscopic chinks of their moral alignment.

“Perhaps if I could better explain—”

“My mom always said the best thing to fix an argument was space,” he sighed, knowing how that conversation would end, “just… be patient.”

“Hard to be _patient_ when she misses game night,” Em jested, a small smile forming, “I had to team up with _Coco_.”

Timothy laughed, “the world appreciates your sacrifice.”

“Timothy!” A voice called out, the pair looking down the hall behind said boy. Em peaked her head out from behind his shoulder to see Emily standing there. Emily’s face fell and her posture became stiff, lips pressing into a thin line.

“It’ll all work out,” Timothy assured one last time before walking towards his girlfriend, hand going out to take hers when he got close enough. Emily spared Em a glance before turning to walk the opposite direction, pulling Timothy close to whisper something.

Em wasn’t good at apologies. She knew that. Her mother used to drag her in front of someone she offended and force her to say the words even if she didn’t mean them. Insincerity was a trait the older woman had refined… a tone of voice Em knew all too well. 

So she turned on her heels and walked in the opposite direction, wondering if she was being sincere in her lack of action or simply being too proud. Her feet led her to the salon, not in the mood for Langdon to appear over her shoulder once more and bring up unpleasant emotions. The brunette wouldn’t even be able to focus on reading, anyways.

The salon was surprisingly empty and quiet. A Grey bustled around dusting and cleaning as a familiar tuft of white hair sat on the sofa.

“Where is everyone?” she asked rounding the sofa.

“Hell if I know,” Gallant sighed as she sat down beside him, “this place is a fucking maze.”

“Evie in an interview?”

He chuckled and smirked, “and I finally have some peace and quiet.”

“Where’s Coco?”

“She’s in one of her _moods_ ,” Gallant said, whatever satisfaction he had left him, smile fading into a frown, “God _forbid_ I want to talk about something other than her.”

“As a hairstylist, I thought you’d be used to it.”

“It’s not like I worked the salon 24/7.”

Em reached for a glass of water, “fair.”

There was a moment of silence… peace. Naturally, Gallant couldn’t let it last for very long. 

“So what’s your deal?” He asked as she leaned back in her seat.

“I’ve made many deals in my life, some savory some unsavory,” She said, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Well _duh,”_ he said, rolling his eyes, “I meant personally. You’ve got this whole… _mysterious_ thing that’s _great_ , don’t get me wrong, but also there are like… _four_ men left in the world and three are gay so you’re going to have to change your brand.”

“Well, I’m bi so that solves that.” Em said before muttering into her glass, “bold of you to assume I’m straight.”

Gallant rolled his eyes, “Everyone’s bi in the right situation.”

Em’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had met people like Gallant, people who said the exact same thing — toxic. 

“Well I’m also ace so…” she says.

“So you’re either a prude or someone did ya’ dirty.”

“Or I just don’t like sex.”

“How can you _not_ like sex?”

“I don’t know…” Em trailed, trying to press a point, “How _can_ you?”

“How can _you_ not?”

Em’s nerves were already wearing thin.

“Well, we all know where it got Stu.” She snapped. They all knew Venable was homophobic. Singling out the gay men? She didn’t even try to hide it.

“You _really_ don’t pull the punches, do you?”

“It’s the _apocalypse_ ,” she said frowning into her drink, “If I held back I’d be _dead_.”

Gallant silently toasted her mentality, but the look on his face displayed a sort of… judgment. She knew the look all too well. It asked —  _“Are you really part of the LGBT community or do you just want to feel special?”_

“Let me put it this way,” She said, putting her drink down and turning to the man, “Do you like Brussels sprouts?”

He looked at her like she had grown a new head, “ _no_.”

“How can you _not?_ I mean you must not have had the good ones…. Maybe it wasn’t seasoned right. No one just doesn’t like Brussels sprouts.”

“Alright, alright,” Gallant conceded, raising his hands in defeat, “I get your point.”

“I get it,” Em admitted after a moment of silence, “I can pass as hetero-normative if I need to and I _have_ due to being in the closet. But both sides of the table always told me I was just seeking attention or going through a phase.”

“This conversation got _way_ deeper than I was planning on it to be,” Gallant noted, eying his drink before mirroring Em and putting it on the table. 

“Yeah,” Em admitted with a chuckle, leaning back on the couch and staring at the ceiling, “Some things just didn’t die with the apocalypse, huh?”

“New world,” He said, glancing at Em as he mirrored her actions, “same bullshit.”

* * *

At some point, Em wandered back towards the library. It was a siren’s song she could not fight against. Also, one could only bare Gallant’s companionship for so long. The man had a way to take his good moments and completely ruin them. He had tried to ask her about multiple highly-sexual definitions as a sort of test of her sexuality or somehow prove it was real to begin with. 

To quell her irritation, she focused on what she was going to do once she got to the library. There was a first edition Hawthorne she had her eye on, but the ever-looming threat of death made her wish for more science books. Hell, she’d take her old high-school textbooks over Hawthorne any day if it gave her the information she needed. 

With a sigh, she took out her notebook and scribbled down yet another unanswered question to research into. It only grew longer as the days passed with no end or hope of answers in sight. The only way to survive was to wander out into the radiation, but she’d rather die at the hands of cannibals than fall victim to cancer and tumors. Perhaps if they focused on finding canned preserves the risk would be lower? It was more hopeful thinking than anything else.

Nose in a book, she barely even noticed the figure rounding the corner until her shoulder clashed with theirs. Pencil clattering to the floor, a hand beat hers to the mark and she pulled back as she kneeled on the floor.

Emily was before her, mouth twisting as she handed the pencil back and searched for the words to say. Em was the first to stand back up, Emily patting at her skirt to buy more time.

“Hey,” Em spoke, breaking the silence.

“Hey.”

“So…” Em bit her lip, looking to the floor to the ceiling and anywhere that wasn’t Emily before sighing and looking at the girl, “I’m sorry. I got so... consumed by surviving I talked to you like you were stupid instead of listening to your concerns.”

“As am I,” Emily echoed, shoulders losing their tension, “I pretty much called you a heartless bitch.”

Em chuckled, “we both got heated. It’s not like your mindset wasn’t warranted.”

With a half-hearted smile, Emily gestured to the library door, Em holding it open for her before following after. As always, everything was right where they left it. Books left to the side stayed exactly in the order she had arranged, bookmarks in the right places. It was the one corner of the world the chaos didn’t touch... or at least where she could begin to understand it.

They fell into place at a table, Em sitting in a seat and Emily sitting on the table itself. She looked around the room, obviously not having been in there since Em and herself fought. 

“You know,” Emily began, “before all this I was protesting a coffee shop for exploiting child labor.”

“Now those kids have more to worry about than poverty,” Em finished the thought, “and they didn’t have the luxury of a decent childhood.”

Emily thinks about it and shakes her head, “I was always told I was getting angry for no reason, taking things too far.”

She looked to Em, “I’m tired of not being able to do anything and then it being too late.”

Em broke from her gaze, trying to turn the chaotic disorder of her thoughts into words, “I wish I could jump into the deep end like you, but I just… I just _can’t_ be a hero. It goes against everything ingrained in me.”

Emily smiled sadly at the girl, squeezing her hand. She always seemed to understand without asking. Em thought it was like her superpower or something. 

“Let’s collect info,” Emily reassured, “and when you feel like it’s time… we’ll strike.”

“When _we_ think it’s time,” Em insisted, “ya’ll’s asses are on the line too.”

Emily smiled and shook her head, “we’ll take a vote. Do it like a jury or something.”

“Viva la revolution.”

They talked for a while, Em updating her on post-interview plans. They needed to find a way to conquer the radiation. There had to be more than one organization of doomsday preppers in the LA area.

“What about the cannibals?” Emily asked, “we don’t even know what or even if there’s an armory in this place.”

“That’s why I was thinking of sneaking into—”

They were interrupted by the screeching of un-oiled door hinges, both girls quickly turning towards the sound. Bookshelves blocked their view, but the telltale sound of steel-toed boots against carpet was unmistakable to Em. Emily looked to her friend as she stood, walking towards the sound.

“Erika?” 

The Fist appeared from one of the aisles, smiling at the girl as Emily looked between the two. Em fell back to sit next to Emily, giving her a reassuring smile as she closed the notebook they had been looking at.

“You have a good ear,” The Fist said, turning to nod a greeting to Emily.

“Emily,” Em introduced, “Erika.”

“A pleasure,” The Fist said, Emily offering a still anxious smile before addressing business, “Mr. Langdon wishes to speak to you.”

“Me?” Emily asked, hand on her chest as she looked between the two.

“No,” The Fist replied turning to the third woman in the room. 

Em’s brows knitted in confusion. “But some of the residents haven’t even had their first—”

“It’s okay,” Emily tried to reassure, nodding for Em to go ahead, “we’ll talk more about books later.”

Em gave a nod of confirmation before turning to The Fist, “lead the way.”

Once the woman’s back was turned Em sent a frantic glance to Emily. Had someone overheard their conversations? Venable killed people for just having _sex_. God knows what she’d do if she unearthed conspiracy.

“I’ll be with Timothy when you’re done.” 

The hallways suddenly felt more foreboding, her paranoia making every shadow into an enemy. Would she be able to fight her way out of there? No… not alone, at the very least. They had guns… she didn’t. She knew how to disarm them. Bullets only went in one direction, after all. Then again, things like that were easier said than done. It was incredible what people were capable of when they were put between a rock and a hard place.

* * *

Langdon didn’t look up at her as she entered, gesturing to the chair she had sat in before as he shuffled through papers.

“Miss Mead tells me you’re instrumental in keeping morale up among the residents.”

Em paused at the arm of the empty chair, hand resting on the back, “Do you ever start with a hello?”

Blue eyes finally lifted from papers, a smile crawling onto his face as he put his pen down. His hands sat on either side of his work as he stared at her with what seemed like amusement in his eyes. “Do you ever directly answer questions?”

“Sometimes.”

A smirk of her own crawled to her lips as she settled into her chair, “I simply make suggestions on how to pass the time. What they do with that is up to them.”

“You sell yourself short,” Langdon noted, examining her reactions, “there must be _something_ that drives your mediation between residents.”

“Boredom?”

“Actions cause reactions. There has to be something you wish to gain.” 

Langdon leaned forward and Em’s skin prickled with anxiety. He didn’t know anything. He was fishing. He couldn’t _prove_ anything. “Tell me… what do you desire?”

She had expected accusations, the lack of which made her at a loss for words. Langdon watched her think for a long moment. Her eyes trained on the floor, looking beyond it at something he couldn’t see. She shook her head, defeated. 

“Honestly,” she admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Everyone desires _something,”_ he pressed, “luxury, prestige, sex... Ah, well. The _latter_ not so much in your case.”

Em either didn’t notice the faux pas or simply didn’t comment on it. Langdon knew it was low-hanging fruit, anyways.

“Material objects bring such fleeting enjoyment,” she sighed, “and then you’re _bored_ again looking for _something_ to fill the hole.”

She paused, genuinely unable to think of anything.

“I guess I’d _like_ to live comfortably,” she admitted, “… not worry over rent or if I can buy food… but being _here_ has negated the need for that.”

“Then let’s speak immaterial,” Langdon proposed.

That. _That_ she did have an answer for, “motivation… happiness.” 

Her interrogator was less than impressed, scoffing at her response, “sounds like something from an Instagram thirst ad.”

Em laughed, amused as she realized the truth in his words and how she must sound saying them aloud. Langdon was once again perplexed by her reaction. He had been expecting something much more defensive.

“But it’s true,” she assured, looking down at her skirt and fixating on a piece of fuzz that had settled on the purple fabric, “I want to have motivation to work on the things I love. I want those fleeting moments of happiness to last longer… but these days they only last a heartbeat before they’re gone.”

He continued to stare at her. She was an oddity among this lot, genuine in a way none of them could ever hope to be. Langdon could see the desire in her eyes and the sadness that came with knowing it was something that could never be given to her. It wasn’t fame or fortune… those desires were always so much easier.

“A material object gives focus to desire,” she finally finished, finally gathering the confidence to look back into his eyes once more, “but it _is_ fleeting. I know that _all_ too well.”

For once Langdon was the one who was at a loss for words. The two could simply look at one another for a long moment until Em broke the silence. 

“May I ask you a question?”

He waved his hand for her to continue, “Why am I receiving a second interview before some residents have received their first?”

“Maybe I think you have potential.”

Em’s face twisted into a wry smile, “or _you_ want me to _think_ I do.”

She did have a way of making him laugh.

“You’re quite the character,” he admitted, leaning back as he chuckled, “it makes me wonder exactly what would happen if you let go.”

“Let go?”

“Of that anger boiling inside of you.”

There it was. The dropping of the pin. Langdon liked to get you comfortable before he shoved in the knife.

Once again, Em felt the need to edge around the statement. A sinner in church felt themselves being watched by a thousand eyes when the reality was not a single one was focused upon them. No. She’d watch her words until he accused her of conspiracy. She’d play it safe.

Langdon watched her become guarded. Hands once placed on either arm of the chair became centered on her lap, fingers twisted together. Green eyes dilated and he could see a muscle tense around her jaw.

“Momentary catharsis isn’t worth the consequences,” she noted.

“There are no laws anymore,” he noted, rounding the desk, “no rules. Chaos has won.”

Em shook her head, “don’t tempt me.”

If she hadn’t of known better she’d of said he looked… enthralled. There was an eagerness to his gaze. Langdon felt his heart leap in his chest. It was as if he was witnessing a phoenix rise from the ashes.

“You’re picturing it now, aren’t you?” he asked, “taking back the power Venable holds, leading a revolt to—”

“Good things come to those who wait,” Em noted, pulling back and leaning back into the chair in preparation to rise from it, “until the cards are in my favor I won’t move.”

His tone scared her as he continued to press and press a button she had been trying to ignore. It was like staring at a snake alone in the middle of the desert, unsure if its bite will simply hurt or turn your insides to mush. Either way, it was just the two of you. Even if you managed to wrangle it off you and cut off its head there was a chance you wouldn’t survive.

“Hold the cards too close to your chest and they will be wasted.”

He only moved slightly towards her and she jumped to her feet as if his mere presence was a blazing inferno. The buzzing feeling began again, spreading from her chest to her head and all the way out to her limbs. 

“I think we’re done here,” Em said, words rushing from her mouth before they could catch in her chest. She took a step back. His hands moved quickly, but his touch was light as he grabbed her arm. He pulled her towards him, just as gentle.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, voice almost soft as blue eyes searched into her green ones, “I’m on your side.”

She yanked her arm from his grasp. Em did not care for cages, gilded or covered with rust. Langdon’s eyes looked hurt as she pulled away, gaze going desperately between her face and her arm as if trying to understand why she pulled away.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” She snapped before leaving the room as quickly as her feet would carry her. Langdon simply stood still and let her go, hand slowly falling to his side.

In her desperation to flee, Em’s surroundings seemed to blur around her. She had tunnel-vision and all that mattered was getting as far away from Langdon as possible. What he made her feel… there were no words for it. She was terrified and excited all at once. It was like being on a roller-coaster, the adrenaline rush making you run into danger again and again. No. She wouldn’t run into the fire. She wouldn’t play hero.

“Woah!” a voice exclaimed, “slow down.”

Timothy stood in front of her, hands on either shoulder as he bent down to look her in her eyes. They were frantic, dilated, and unable to focus on anything.

“What happened?”

Movement over her shoulder caught his eye from somewhere down the hall. Langdon stood there, hands coming to rest behind his back as he eyed the pair. A noticeable frown was on the blond’s lips, eyes narrowing on Timothy’s hands on the woman’s shoulders. Timothy felt like he had interrupted something… probably for the better. He honestly couldn’t tell.

Finally noticing Timothy’s gaze, Em glanced over her shoulder to find nothing but a dark hall. She quickly righted herself, calming her breathing and nerves.

“Where’s Emily?” she asked, voice almost robotically even.

“In her room…” Timothy said, pulling his eyes from the dark hall, “why?”

Em shook her head, “You were right… something is _wrong_ with Langdon... wrong with this entire _fucking_ outpost. We need a plan sooner rather than later.” 

* * *

Hours later, Em couldn’t place why she had been so scared. When she looked at his face she just felt pain striking right at her chest and there was only a moment before the venom destroyed her from the inside out. 

Timothy and Emily had noted her distress, promising to brainstorm ideas and meet up later once things settled down. While Em had been the first to propose that they keep their ear to the pavement, the patience to do so was quickly thinning. 

There was something in Langdon’s eye… like he could see everything she had ever done or ever will do. It was like he _knew_ exactly what they were doing.

Em paced her room, trying to keep her mind on the tangible instead of giving in to fear. A plan… she needed to figure out a plan. The Warden’s, Grey’s, and Venable were her best bet at getting a base-level understanding of how the outpost was run. She had tried talking to the Grey’s, but they either knew

Things just didn’t add up. Most of the residents, no matter their station, seemed in the dark about The Cooperative’s movements. Venable even seemed perplexed. There could be information in the woman’s room, but doing so would lead them to a quick death.

Their best bet would be to gather information from the Greys, scattered and benign as it may be. Emily was probably talking to them now as Em paced and paced. Going as a group would make them larger targets and more suspicious, but it was maddening to just sit and wait.

A knock on the door pulled her from her reverie. Em raced to hide her notes in her desk. Putting them all back in order was taking more time than she expected. Another knock came, harder and more urgent.

“Just a second!” Em sang, deciding to just shove all the papers in the desk and organize them later. Smoothing down her hair and straightening her skirt, Em stalked to the door and opened it.

There was momentary relief when she saw Coco, quickly replaced with dread when she realized exactly who was standing outside her door.

“Yes?” Em asked, leaning forward as she had one hand on the door and another on the frame. Coco had a sickly sweet smile on her face which could only mean one thing.

“I need your help.”

At least this time she hadn’t beat around the bush and wasted Em’s time with an hour conversation about doing makeup in horrible lighting. She stared at Em, an awkward silence falling between the pair.

“ _With_?” Em finally asked.

Coco gave her a look, “my dress! _Duh_.”

Em’s eyes scanned over Coco’s dress, confusion marring her features as she looked back at the woman’s face, “what about it?”

“Not _this_ one!” Coco exclaimed, rolling her eyes, “the _purple_ one… well… the _purpler_ one. I asked Mallory and she had no idea what to do but I saw you out here once with —”

“Coco,” Em said, voice like a teacher trying to get a rowdy student to sit in their seat, “what do you want?”

“Can you mend my dress?” Coco grabbed on to one of Em’s hands as she begged, “There’s a giant _hole_ in my armpit and my interview with Langdon is in an _hour_. I _swear_ I’ll put in a good word with him for you!”

Em pried her hand away from the woman and resisted the urge to groan. Taking a deep breath she weighed her choices. Finally, she let out a sigh, resigning herself to her fate and trying to be as nice as possible.

“I guess I have nothing better to do.”

A grin spread across Coco’s face and she took her hand once more, hardly giving Em a chance to lock her door before dragging her along. Coco was only nice when she wanted something. Em logically knew that. Yet, somehow, the girl reminded her of an old friend, rambling about this, that, and everything as she tugged her along to god knows where. If she stared at the back of Coco’s head for a moment she could pretend the blonde hair belonged to someone else.

Em quickly threw the trail of thought away. Last thing she needed was Coco spreading a story about how she cried over the woman’s pathetic attempts at being a decent human being. 

Coco threw open the door to her room and quickly shoved the garment into Em’s hand, shattering whatever illusion of kindness she had briefly created. “Here!”

“What side?” Em sighed, turning the garment around in her hands.

The blonde looked up as she thought, raising one arm, then the other as if recalling the exact moment it ripped.

“Never mind,” Em droned, “I found it.”

The hole was quite large, probably due to its poor fitting. It wasn’t as if they had someone take their measurements before they arrived at the outpost. It reached from the armpit to halfway between the sleeve and the waistline. Coco had gotten lucky, the tear following the natural stitching of the garment.

“Do you have a needle and thread?” Em asked, Coco hovering over her shoulder as she examined the damage.

“Do I _look_ like I mend my own clothes?”

The brunette sighed once more, “get a Grey to bring me something, then.”

“Don’t you have your _own_ tools or something?” Coco scoffed.

Em rose her eyes to look at the spoiled brat.

“ _When’s_ your interview?”

Coco huffed and went out into the hall, leaving the door open so the other woman would be sure to hear her stomping. For a moment there was glorious silence, Em examining the inside of the dress to figure out how to sew it up. After a few moments, a figure caught her eye and she looked up at the doorway.

Gallant stood, leaning against the frame with a box in one hand.

“What’s she having _you_ do for her?” he asked.

“Mending clothes,” Em sighed, holding up the dress, “you here for her hair?”

“ _Yup_ ,” Gallant said with a pop, moving to set up in the room, “Don’t know how many more miracles I can pull in that department.”

“A comment on your lack of supplies or an insult to Coco?”

The man paused, turning back towards her as he eyes the ceiling in thought, “Both?”

They could hear Coco’s stomping before they could see her, the woman appearing in the doorway with a scowl.

“Here’s your supplies,” she snapped before turning to Gallant. She mouthed something Em couldn’t hear, but Gallant’s silent response was comically easy to read as he mouthed the words “ _I know.”_

Wearing a plastic smile she had learned from customer service, Em took the needle and thread from Coco’s hand and pulled out what she needed from the spool. 

“Did you get scissors?” Em asked as she looked around.

“ _No_.”

Regretting her decision to help, the brunette turned to Gallant.

“Uh-uh,” He said, shaking a finger in front of him, “no way.”

“Just do it!” Coco snapped, falling back into a seat before her vanity.

With the grace of a sulking toddler, Gallant made his way towards Em, reluctantly cutting the thread. His frown persisted as he went back to deal with Coco’s hair.

“You owe me,” He grumbled. Em couldn’t tell if the statement was directed at herself or Coco.

“Did they ever figure out what caused that power out earlier?” Coco asked Gallant, the two quickly creating their own little bubble of which Em was not a part of. Not that she cared.

“Probably just some minor glitch,” Gallant dismissed, obviously not losing sleep over the issue.

“ _That’s_ hardly reassuring. My father paid _millions_ to get us in here. You’d think they’d at least be able to keep it running smoothly.”

Gallant rose his hands, giving Coco a look in the mirror, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Coco didn’t even hear him, going on some random tirade Em quickly tuned out. What she wouldn’t do for a pair of noise-proof headphones.

Both Gallant and Em went into a trace as they worked. Em remembered when she was little and wanted to be a fashion designer, herself and another friend spending their elementary school lunchtime drawing out designs. Her grandmother had been more than happy to teach Em how to use her old and outdated sowing machine. Childlike enthusiasm led to it breaking. In the end, her grandmother was only able to teach her a few things before she passed… most of them with a needle, thread, and her own hands.

“Are _you_ almost _finished_?” Coco demanded, pulling Em out of her train of thought as she paced the room like an angry chicken. Gallant followed after her, trying to keep his masterpiece in place. “ _He_ can’t finish until _you’re_ finished.”

Em paid her no mind, turning back to her work and maintaining her steady pace, “do you _want_ this to look like it was patched together by a drunken child?”

Coco huffed and stalked back to her seat, much to the relief of Gallant.

“I have twenty minutes…” she continued to complain.

“And the walk down the hallway takes _five_.” Em reminded.

Gallant was content to wait. He’d worked on models before back when he was first making his break and he was well used to clothing mishaps. Coco, on the other hand, glared daggers at Em as she worked. If she was being honest, Em quite enjoyed annoying the woman. It was comically easy to test just how spoiled she truly was.

Fifteen minutes passed and Em finally finished the last stitch, knotting the end a few times to keep it in place.

“Finally!” Coco exclaimed, not waiting for the pair to leave before changing. It wasn’t as if there was much to expose. Victorian undergarments were infinitely more modest than modern swimsuits. As soon as the dress was over her head, Gallant did a few last adjustments to her hair.

“Fini?” Coco asked, staring at the man as he focused on one stray strand. One would think he was diffusing a bomb given the intensity he looked at hair when working. Finally, he nodded and Coco was gone from the room in an instant without a single word of thanks.

“She’s a mess,” Gallant sighed, turning back to pack up his things.

“For once we agree on something.”

“Why did _you_ agree to do this?” he asked, waving a comb as he continued to pack up, “aren’t you usually holed up in the library?”

“Bored.”

Gallant chuckled, “Fair.”

Rolling the loose thread back around the spool, Em made her way back to her room. Without the outside distraction, something to focus on, her mind went back to its earlier worries. She felt like she was staring at a brick wall, wondering how to tear it down when her only tools were her own two hands. If she got to the other side… maybe then she could find something.

Movement caught her eye as she turned a corner, looking up to find Langdon holding the door open for Coco. Something stirred in her chest and she turned away and kept walking before it could fester. Her cheeks warmed as she felt eyes burning into the side of her head.

Emotions were far too stressful. That’s why she liked logic. She just had to focus on the logic. Then she’d be safe.

* * *

There was nothing like the impending doom of death to make people do _anything_ to chase away anxiety. Even after a solemn vow to never play the game again, they had brought their make-shift _Pictionary_ once more. Bits of extra paper and a whiteboard from the Grey’s common area used to draw upon.

“Oh! Cats the musical!” Coco yelled out as Andre drew, “Horny!”

Timothy kept an eye on his pocket watch, finally looking up as he called time.

“ _Rosemary’s Baby_!” Andre shouted at Coco, circling the spikes at the top of the head he was drawing, “They’re _horns_!”

Coco huffed and waved a hand as she fell back in her sleep, grabbing her water and taking a drink as Timothy’s eyes returned to his watch.

“Okay! He announced, “Emily and Emily!”

Em got up and reached into the box of folded cards, looking at the words written. Her lips twisted as she thought about how to approach it.

“Ready?” Timothy asked. Em nodded. “Go!”

Rapidly, Em drew a caricature on the white-board as Emily leaned forward in her seat.

“Dolly Parton!” Emily shouted after a few moments. Em threw down the pencil in victory, a large grin on her face.

“No fair!” Coco bemoaned, gesturing to the pair, “you have fucking _Da Vinci_ on your team.”

“I was on your team last time.” Em reminded.

“That was _ages_ ago!”

Em’s eyes flitted up to the balcony which loomed over the salon, a familiar figure in black catching her eye. The glow of the fire made it seem like his hair was made of gold. He leaned on the railing like a content cat watching the mice play.

She pretended she hadn’t noticed him but could feel his eyes on her back, the hairs on her neck standing on end as the buzzing feeling began to return.

“Okay, Timmy,” Gallant declared, rising from his seat to take the board from Em, “our time to shine.”

Her focus on the man watching them was interrupted by Timothy tossing her his pocket watch. If not for the way it caught the light Em would have let it drop.

When she looked up Langdon was gone as if he were a shadow instead of a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all.... don’t usually do this stuff at the end of the chapter because I like to let the writing speak for itself, but I kind of want to talk about the convo between Gallant and Em. This is more anxious rambling than anything, but I guess I wanted to put this note here to ease some of said anxiety?  
> This conversation I have had planned since the very beginning when I started plotting this story about a year ago. I myself am also an asexual bi-romantic person and, as authors do, I put a part of myself into this character.  
> Gallant very much reminded me of an old friend I had and much of what was said in this convo was said by that person in my life when I came out to them. It made me doubt myself for a really long time and made me think that I was just “wanting” to be LGBT+ to feel “special.” I also know it is often a tension point on online communities as well for both bisexuality and asexuality which added to my anxiety of putting it in this story.  
> Anyways — if y’all have questions about any of that feel free to ask. Thanks for reading this little anxious rambling PSA of sorts.


	8. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kudos and comments you all give me really keep me plowing through these chapters lol. Here's chapter 7! Things are finally starting to get real.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: self-harm described in the last scene of this chapter. Right after a scene with Mead and Venable talking. See end of chapter notes for a brief overview of what happens without all the triggering details.

“I’m still not sure if this is a good idea,” Timothy whispered.

Their _Pictionary_ diversion had worked wonderfully. Venable and Mead using it as their own distraction to talk away from prying eyes. Emily had overheard Grey’s talking about the rendezvous as they did laundry.

“If _you_ don’t want to come _you_ don’t have to,” Emily hissed, doing nothing to hide her annoyance with the man.

Em, on the other hand, was quite done with both of them. Their whispering would make them look even more suspicious and took away any element of surprise they had. “Would you two _shut up_?”

As they got to the end of the hall, Em paused and listened for sounds of life around the corner. One thing about living with her father had taught her was how to listen for footsteps and breathing to give away someone’s position.

Em motioned to Timothy to put out his light, plunging them into darkness save the few candles Venable let burn for the Greys.

The meeting between Venable and her head warden lasted hours according to Emily’s intel. This would give them ample time to search one of their rooms and hopefully find answers. Emily had wanted them to split up and search both, but Em had convinced her to succeed at one job before they went on to something larger.

So there they stood, outside Mead’s room and praying this went as well as they had planned it to. Emily and Timothy went spread out to Em’s right and left, keeping an eye out for any incoming traffic. Her job was to pick the lock. She had practiced for hours on her bathroom door. Hopefully, it would take less time for her to get it down this time.

Channeling the focus she had while sowing, Em set to work on the door and shoved out any distractions. Time meant nothing. If she focused on time she would mess up. Slow and steady won the race… she only hoped nursery stories she heard a million times as a child proved true.

“How long is this—” Timothy whispered, quickly cut off by a scathing look from Emily.

Em was starting to wonder if she’d be better off doing this alone.

Finally, the lock clicked open and Em twisted her wrist to turn it. With a sigh of relief, she pulled her tools out, heart leaping to her chest as the hairpin remained stuck in the lock. Yanking a few more times, she eventually let it stay where it was pursing her lips and turning the handle.

Timothy started towards her, Emily mirroring his actions as they came to stand by the door. Em looked to Emily who simply nodded at the pair.

“I’ll tap the wall three times if anyone shows up. Be sure to hide.”

Mead’s room was just as Em had imagined. Everything had its proper spot and not a single speck of dusk was out of place. Without saying a word, Em and Timothy set off to opposite sides of the room to hunt for anything that would enlighten them to the inner workings of the outpost.

While Timothy rustled through her desk, Em opened the closet. Her hand felt along the bottom, shoes and boxes. She pulled one out to see its contents only to find an old medal of honor and an embroidered decoration with a goat with the words “ _devil mama_ ” around it. Inside joke? Did Mead have goats before she joined the Cooperation?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t important and Em continued to investigate. Finally, she felt a latch near the back of the closet. Moving a few more boxes, Em revealed a secret compartment that revealed exactly what they were looking for.

“Timothy!” Em hissed, quickly looking through the notebook. He hovered over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages — random notes with no coherent organization. They were marked with military time.

One entry was on the day of Stu’s death. Nothing of importance was written — more about the settings of the Geiger counter than anything else. Em pulled out her phone and captured a picture.

“Where—?” Timothy whispered, Em cutting him off as she continued to hunt.

“I got here before everyone else, remember?”

She snapped a few pictures of notes on different residents, mostly status reports of Greys and Wardens — who was doing the best, who could be trusted with which tasks and so on. The back of the journal was the most informative, listing exit procedures for Wardens in case of a breach as well as a small booklet no doubt given to Mead by the Cooperative itself.

Em took as many pictures as possible, not really reading over the notes. There’d be time for _that_ later.

A knock came to the wall. Then two. Then three.

The pair threw what they had found back into the closet, only making sure the secret compartment was where they had found it. Timothy stood, wide-eyed as he looked for a place to hide. Em scanned the room and pulled him towards the bed, shimmying to get under.

She had just enough time to pull her skirt out of view just as the door began to open. Her heart leapt in her chest as she held onto Timothy’s hand. She spared a look behind them to make sure they were properly out of view.

Em had always made fun of her mom’s insistence of putting a skirt on the bed frame. Now it was the difference between survival and the gallows.

The door froze for a moment, a small sliver of light coming from the hall as well as the muffled sounds of conversation.

“I just wanted to talk to you about the interviews,” they could hear Emily say from the hall.

“I don’t know anything about those,” Mead responded, short and obviously wanting to leave the conversation.

“I just felt like I was so nervous I completely blew the first one and it’s my life on the line… literally.”

The older woman sighed, “when _Langdon_ wants to talk to you _he’ll_ let you know.”

“But—”

“ _Goodnight_.”

Em smiled to herself. She was proud of her friend for putting on such a good performance. Timothy’s reaction was much more panicked, looking to Em with wide, horrified eyes.

She flipped his hand over so his palm was to the ceiling… or, in their case, the mattress. His brow furrowed, but he made no move of disagreement. What _could_ they do? Jump out and yell, “ _surprise_?”

Her own heart was hammering in her chest as she felt the bed press down above her. She wondered how Mead couldn’t hear it, the sound like a drum in Em’s ears.

Mead sighed, a tired and defeated sound before muttering to herself, “damn kids.”

A shoe landed with a _thump_ than another which sat in front of Timothy’s face, far too close for comfort. His hand reached out to push it away, but Em pinched his hand. His jaw was tensed as he looked at her, expression asking her what in the _fuck_ he was supposed to do.

Em simply shook her head. If they wanted Mead to believe they weren’t there, they had to _act_ like they weren’t there.

The woman didn’t even look down as she grabbed her shoe. The sliver of an opening between the bed-skirt and the floor gave Em just enough view to see the woman’s hands grasping for the boot before stalking over to the closet and throwing them in. The sound of something falling in the closet made the woman curse.

“Stupid boxes,” She grumbled, Em watching her feet as she opened the closet door. There was no sign of the woman seeing anything out of place, but Em still held her breath.

They laid there under the bed as Mead straightened up the room, finally meandering to her dresser where she poured herself a drink. Another knock nearly made Em gasp, biting her lip until it hurt to keep the sound from escaping her.

“What now?” Mead huffed under her breath, uttering a few choice expletives and setting down the drink with more force than necessary. Em’s fight or flight instincts were going wild, but the action simply added to them.

She could see Mead walk to the door and saw the barest hints of a pair of polished shoes on the other side. Em could picture Mead’s shocked face as her voice betrayed her emotions.

“Mr. Langdon!” the woman said, quickly calming herself at his sudden appearance, “How can I help you?”

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” he said. Em could also tell he was smirking… only slightly. “I was told you had been in a meeting before.”

“Not at all. Is there something wrong?”

Em watched as Langdon leaned back on his heels. Really, he was so easy to read just by posture alone. “I’m here to collect you for your interview.”

“Interview? At this hour?”

Langdon took a step away. At least, she thought he did. He had moved out of her view, at the very least. “I could always come back.”

“No need. Just give me a moment.”

The door closed and Mead pulled her shoes out of the closet. Once again, the bed dipped as she rushed to put them back on. Em could feel her footsteps vibrate up her arm as the woman walked to the door, opening it and pausing.

She’d seen her make-shift lock-pick.

“Something wrong?” Langdon asked.

“Nothing,” Mead said, the door closing and muffling their voices. She hadn’t attempted to lock the door… not that she could.

Timothy moved to shimmy out from under the bed, but Em caught his arm.

“She’s _gone_ ,” he whispered.

“We need to wait at _least_ five minutes.”

Timothy sighed, but relented into her demands. His lips pursed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. They both stared at it, the seconds ticking by painfully slow.

Finally, they skittered out from their hiding spots. Em’s back popped as she rose, limbs protesting at being constrained and tensed for what felt like an eternity.

The door squeaked ever slightly and the pair froze, too late to hide. Em felt her head become light as she leapt towards the back of the door as if she could somehow slip out before it closed once more.

Emily’s head popped around the corner as her breath caught in her throat. Timothy sighed and leaned down on his knees.

“For fucks sake!” Em hissed, hand grasping at her heart.

“Just hurry up before anyone shows up!” Emily hissed, tugging the two out into the hallway and shutting the door quietly behind them. The three musketeers hurried back to the Purple’s living quarters as quickly as their feet could carry them.

“What did you get?” Emily asked, panting ever slightly as they made it back to safety.

Em’s smile was giddy, the adrenaline not quite worn off, “we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Timothy was almost as giddy as she was, laughing anxiously as he realized they had pulled it off. “Where?”

“My room,” Em said, nodding as she tried to collect her fractured thoughts, “anyone could listen in the library.”

“Where the _hell_ did you get a phone?” Timothy asked, chuckling and leaning on his knees as he shook his head.

“A _phone_?” Emily echoed.

The brunette frantically shushed the pair, looking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, “last thing we need is Venable confiscating the only evidence we have!”

The pair quickly closed their mouths.

“Tomorrow. My room. After lights out.” Em ordered, “I still need to look into some things.”

“Do you think it can help us?” Timothy asked.

Em shook her head, the high finally wearing off, “I don’t know, but it’s a start.”

They righted themselves as a shuffling was heard down the hall, disbursing and returning to their own rooms. Em leaned against her door once she was safely inside, not yet convinced they had really pulled it off.

Locking the door, she made sure to hide her phone in the compartment she had made in her bed frame. She sat on her bed, not quite ready to go to sleep.

Were Mead, Venable, and Langdon on the same team? Em could never discern a proper answer to that question. They belonged to the same organization, certainly, but where did their loyalties lie? They were definitely up to something. Those numbers listed on the date of Stu’s death… they couldn’t mean anything good.

Whatever was going on in Outpost 3, she was going to figure it out. Em would rather die with the truth than believing in a lie.

* * *

Others were starting to notice the frequency of Em’s visits with Langdon. They didn’t say anything, but she could tell from their gaze. Probably what the man intended, isolate and divide.

It certainly made her stick out like a sore thumb. So much so that the three musketeers had to halt any further investigation… or at least any that relied upon Em as a factor. They _needed_ to be on the offensive.

Honestly, she was far too preoccupied with her new advances to care much about the last interview. If she was able to collect information from _Mead_ she could most certainly survive another interview. It was almost a trip now, the adrenaline. Something to live for.

Em took a moment outside his door to collect herself. She was a purple… she didn’t know about how the outpost was run… she didn’t know anything beyond the threat of looming death. Like a mantra she repeated it in her head, hand raising to knock.

“Come in,” Langdon’s voice sang from the other side, his eyes meeting hers as she slipped into his office and settled into the chair, “Hello, Emily.”

“Langdon,” She greeted, a small smile coming to her lips, “this is my… third interview? What else could you possibly want to know.”

“ _You_ know I can’t divulge the criteria I must assess you on,” He said with a smile, knowing she already knew his response. 

“Maybe one of these days you’ll slip up,” Em noted, “worked on my mom when I wanted a cat.”

“Oh?” he asked, “you badgered her until she said yes.”

“Actually, my grandmother went behind her back and took me to the animal shelter,” Em admitted with a smile.

A smile of his own formed on his lips as he looked at her, “why am I not surprised?”

Her eyes avoided his, dragging down to her skirt which she suddenly became preoccupied with.

“I doubt you brought me down here to reminisce.”

He sighed and started looking at his file, “Always to the point.”

“I’m certain you have other interviews to conduct.”

“None as interesting as your own,” He noted without thought, more preoccupied with her file than what he was saying, “What skills could you offer to a new society.”

Em sighed and straightened up a bit. He never did come with easy questions.

“I’m no scientist or engineer,” She admitted, “I’ll admit my skills come into need much later in a society’s development, but I’d argue the recording of history is important.”

“Is it?”

“If we are to learn from our mistakes.”

“And look where it got us,” he noted, “a land of nuclear waste.”

“I could sit here and argue the effects of revisionist history,” Em said before sighing, “but that would bring up an argument of the cycle of corruption and I tend not to think about that these days.”

Langdon leaned back in his seat, “you think we’re bound to repeat ourselves.”

There was something about the brunette today that caught him off guard. She was lighter, less fidgety. The restraints she had put upon herself were almost… gone. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“With this lot you’ve chosen there is no doubt of it, sir,” she said, leaning forward in her own seat, “this situation seems to be the hollowed-out shell of a plan.”

Langdon cocked his head, “how so?”

“A self-sustaining society is not too far-fetched.” She noted, arms coming to rest on those of the chair, “ The Cooperative is _supposed_ to have planned to wait out a nuclear winter and all they have is a few shelters with no way to sustain life past a few years?”

She scoffed and shook her head, “Unlikely.”

He hid his face as he smirked. So she was playing her cards. Her interviews were always _much_ more fun than those of the other residents.

“Timing was not in our favor,” He noted, raising his gaze from the file, expression unreadable. Em could see the glimmer in his eye. If he was going to put a target on her back, she might as well make it large enough to shield Emily and Timothy.

“Then why give false hope?” She probed, “I think I’d have rather been blown to hell than wait patiently to starve to death.”

Her head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing as she seemed to read him like a book. Recognition dawned on her and she leaned back in her chair.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” she noted, “to have us tear each other apart and the survivor be taken to salvation.”

“The Cooperative’s _mission_ is to _sustain_ the lives of people underground until it is safe enough to go above.”

Em shook her head. He sounded like some Utopian commercial selling the idea of paradise. “I find that very unlikely at this point.”

He stood and wandered over to the fireplace, hands behind his back as he stared at the flames.

“You’re quite brazen,” He noted, smiling at the flames before turning to look at her over his shoulder, “I could fail you simply for challenging authority.”

“Then fail me,” Em said, standing and coming to rest next to him. She stared into the flames as he had, but made no move to look away. “I would gladly take a death-like sleep.”

Langdon took a step back, eyes almost worried as she continued to stare at the fire. Finally, she turned to him, hand held out expectantly.

His hand raised as if he would give in to her demands, faltering as he did so. Instead, he curled his hand over her own and gently pushed it down.

“You are quite fascinating, Emily,” he admitted, so close she could almost feel his breath on her face, “It would be quite stupid of me to let you die now.”

He expected her to pull away. Instead, she drew closer.

“You are quite arrogant to think you have _any_ say in that.”

Langdon was at a lack for words as she pulled away and walked towards the door. His first reaction was to call her bluff, but he did not see one in her eyes. For a long moment, he stared at his hand, realizing how empty it felt without her own placed upon it. Finally, he turned in her direction,

“Are you a martyr, Emily?” he asks as her hand reached for the door handle.

“There is no reason for me to cower,” she said before chuckling to herself, a sad and lonesome sound, “and I refuse to die afraid.”

He took a step forward, “The heavens frown upon suicides.”

She glanced back at him and laughed right in his face, “oh, darling. We’re _well_ past that notion.”

The door closed behind it and Langdon could only stare where she once stood. Slowly, his eyes dragged back to the fire. He stared at where she had stood as if reliving the memory again, mouth agape at the audacity of it all. The hand which was still raised clenched into a fist before returning to his side as he looked inward.

This certainly _was_ a most _unexpected_ outcome. There was an uncertainty in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time, a feeling of worry, a feeling of _fear._

* * *

Facing death was never easy, but Em had finally convinced herself that, if she did die, she would do so with grace. She didn’t know what about the previous night’s expedition had done to her mentally. Perhaps she had finally proved to herself that even the most intimidating of forces were but shadows dancing on the wall — cast them in light and they became such small creatures. The dog that snarls usually does so out of fear rather than a desire to kill.

Didn’t make them any less dangerous, however.

Em paused ever slightly as she made her way down the hall, still riding the high of adrenaline of freedom. A figure came her way, familiar and unpleasant. The momentary faltering was slight, but enough for the other woman to notice.

The brunette pushed forward, sparing a smile at the woman she loathed. “ _Kill them with kindness,”_ her mother always said. Kindness gave a facade of weakness if used properly and it most certainly made it easier to kill them. _Metaphorically_ , of course.

She had made it to the steps before she realized Venable had stopped in her tracks. In fact, she had already taken the first few steps down when Venable realized she’d have to do more than stare to get the other woman’s attention.

“I’m quite perplexed,” Venable spoke, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. The sound of it echoed down the hall. Part of Em was tempted to keep walking just to piss her off, but it was always better to face the cockroach and deal with it before it slithered back into whatever hole it had crawled out of.

She turned slowly, hands coming to rest behind her back as she centered herself on a step, “ _about?_ ”

Venable took a step towards the girl, closing the distance between them, “Miss Mead came to her room to find a pin jammed into her door.”

“You confiscated my sewing supplies ages ago,” Em reminded with a smile.

“ _Not_ a sewing pin.”

“Then,” Em asked, taking a step up, “what?”

Venable chuckled, more a scoff than an act of amusement, “ _I know_ what you are doing.”

The brunette simply stood, staring and showing no sign of speaking any time soon. Finally, Venable was forced to break the silence.

“ _Mead_ suspects Gallant, but _I know_ you’re planning _something_ from the shadows,” Venable said, moving even closer to Em, cane making a sharp sound as it hit the ground. She glanced down to her feet then back to the woman before her as if she could read where the brunette had been by examining her shoes. “Thing is, I can’t find out _what_.”

Em looked to the ground, mouth twisting in thought before so looked back at the woman with a cocked brow and an air of innocence which made Venable’s blood boil.

“So _you_ have _no_ proof?”

“ _I have_ my gut,” Venable spoke slowly, lips twisted into a scowl as she came within arm's length of the girl, “and it _churns_ when I look at you.”

Her nostrils flared as Em quietly chuckled.

“I’m pretty sure _that’s_ starvation.”

Em moved to turn away from the woman, taking one step down. Venable never could stand to not have the last word.

“I can’t _wait_ to see you _burn_ ,” the overseer spat with as much venom she could muster.

With a sigh Em faced the woman once more and stared her dead in the eye, green ones lit with fire.

“I am a MacLeod of Raasay,” she warned, voice even and stern in warning, “I _cannot_ burn.”

Venable simply scoffed, “we’ll _see_ about _that_.”

Em was more amused than aggravated — though she certainly felt a fair amount of the latter. Unlike Venable, she was able to wield it.

“ _You_ can’t even properly _investigate_ a break-in,” Em noted, her expression a mocking grin, “ _What_ makes you think you can be _anything_ more than a _glorified_ babysitter?”

Venable’s rage was visible. It had been visible for most of the conversation, but now her chest rose and fell with it, nostrils flaring and hands tightening around her cane. It was an instant, hardly longer than a second, between Em’s last word and the woman’s hand flying out towards her.

She had intended to slap Em the same way she had Coco all those many evenings ago. This time, she wouldn’t get the satisfaction. Em’s hand was tight around her wrist, nails digging into her flesh as she used Venable’s arm to pull her in closer.

Venable’s eyes widened with shock, a gasp leaving her as she was forced to abandon her cane which clattered to the floor.

“I’ll advise you to use your words, _Miss_ Venable,” Em growled, breath fanning onto the woman’s face.

Venable could hardly find enough air to speak, but still tried to play at superiority, “Is that a _threat?_ ”

“A _warning_.”

She lightly shoved the woman back, allowing her to collect her cane. When Venable rose back to her full height, she noticed Em looking off into the distance. Her cheeks flushed as she turned to see Langdon staring at the pair from down the hall, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

“Until next time, Venable,” Em said with a smile, turning and descending down the stairs.

“ _Miss_ Venable.” The woman corrected, looking back tot he girl in anger to find she had disappeared. When she turned to look at Langdon once more he was also gone.

Venable’s rage was palpable, her hands itching to claw the girl’s eyes out. Gritting her teeth, she collected herself and stalked down the hall, beating her cane against the floor to dismiss curious Greys that stared as she passed.

Em, on the other hand, was quite content. Finding her way to the salon, she had run into Erika. Their conversation quickly turned to the usual— food.

“How’s the agricultural investigation going?” Em asked her, turning to look up at the woman as she walked.

“Slow,” The Fist sighed, “yours?”

“The same. I could use your blog right about now.”

The Fist smiled at her, “We may not have the internet, but feel free to ask me about anything you wish. My information may not be _accurate,_ but I will pull from my memory as best as possible.”

“I believe we’re quite overdue for that talk about preservatives,” Em noted, “my bad. With all the interviews my head has been lost.”

“We wardens have also been busy prepping for what happens after the interviews,” The Fist nodded, “If I remember clearly, preservatives could alter shelf life by an exponential—”

There was a power in familiarity. It was easy to take satisfaction from knocking a ruler off their pedestal, but a leader that lingers among the people… leaders that become an integrated part of society… that’s where _true_ power lay.

* * *

Mead watched as Venable paced in her room, wearing a hole into the floor. She sat in one of the poorly constructed chairs that always made her feel like she was using furniture meant for children.

“That _bitch_ has been a thorn in my side since the beginning,” Venable seethed, “and she has humiliated me for the last time!”

Mead stood quietly as her superior ranted and raved. She could feel a flare of anger in her belly, but for Venable or Emily, she didn’t know. In all honestly, she had come to like the girl. Em had been one of the few purples she approved of, witty and smart. Then again, being the most tolerable purple wasn’t a large feat. It was like being the smartest person on _Family Feud_.

“We _need_ to get rid of her,” Venable declared, raising a finger as she approached Mead, “the others will fall in line, but she’s _far_ too stubborn.”

Mead sighed.

“Let her be,” she tried to reason, “if we condemn her without her breaking _rules_ then the _others_ will be more likely to rebel.”

Venable opened her mouth, most like to chastise her on being too soft. Mead beat her to the punch.

“Tensions are high as is,” Mead reminded, “if we strike too soon this whole thing will pop like a balloon.”

Venable’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she took a step back. Her rage was speaking before her reason.

“You’re right,” she conceded, eyes flickering with inspiration, “why take out the _lamb_ when you can take out the entire _flock_?”

* * *

Em paced in her room. Whatever feeling of victory she had over her previous actions gone and replaced with seething and riotous anger.

That _bitch_ had tried to _slap_ her. _No_ … she reasoned. She wouldn’t let the anger win.

Sitting back down, she focused on the task at hand.

She had started the afternoon researching, as per usual. The three musketeers still had a meeting of which she needed a plan of action, after all. She had even gotten her hands on an ancient science book with a section on radiation.

Her intention _had_ been to find some information on the Geiger counter mentioned in Mead’s notes. All she had been able to deduce was that some of the shorthand notes referenced to the sensitivity. The rest of the notes might as well have been written in gibberish. No matter how many times she read over them nothing stood out.

With a huff, Em threw down the papers she had been reading from. She had always worked better on the floor — more space to spread things out. Didn’t really matter when you couldn’t focus on said work, however.

Langdon was right, rage bubbled inside her like a volcano. Venable’s actions mirrored those from her past far too well, making unsavory feelings shift to the surface. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint she had not to kill the woman there and then.

It would have been _easy_. All she’d have to do was pull the red-headed woman a little closer and toss her down the stairs. She was tired of playing games of politics and submission. It would be so much _straightforward_ to usurp the outpost by force.

Em resumed her pacing, wringing her hands which clenched and unclenched and tensed into claws. She wanted to punch something so _badly_. She wanted to _let go_. She wanted to _destroy_. Her body buzzed and all she could think about was wrapping her hands around Venable’s neck until the life faded from her eyes.

There were two types of rage, the deadly silent and deafening roar. The former often showed itself in annoyance or disgust — emotions often brought out when she was around Gallant or Coco. It was easily managed with a roll of the eyes, a well-placed jibe, or a long-winded rant to a friend.

The latter was much deadlier. It made one see red, making logic null and void. All that mattered was winning, the taste of iron in your mouth as you stared down at the corpse of your opponent as satisfaction made your heart feel light.

It defied all logic. Hurting someone wouldn’t _help_ the situation. Destroying something would only cause _more_ problems— a mess to be cleaned up.

Em stalked to the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her chest heaved, knuckles white around the sink she leaned upon like a lifeline. The eyes that looked back at her weren’t her own, they were something other. Someone she did not recognize stared at her, tempted her.

She didn’t even realize her knife was in her hand until it was stabbing into her leg. It broke whatever spellbound her to the mirror, a silent scream leaving her as she crumpled to the floor.

Shaking hands hovered over the blade, not sure whether to pull it out or leave it in. Blood bubbled to the surface and dripped onto the floor. It wasn’t as if Outpost Three had a _doctor._ Then again, they probably didn’t expect residents to _stab_ _themselves._

“Fuck,” She muttered, doing her best to keep her voice low, “fuck, _fuck_.”

Doing her best not to move too badly, Em dragged herself to the shower, reaching up to grab a towel from the rack. Her fingers barely brushed it and she made the executive choice to move and sit up on her good leg.

Gritting her teeth through the pain, she tore it down. She was lucky she was in her Victorian underwear or else she’d have to go through the gruesome process of collecting the fabric from the wound.

Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, she tried to make her breathing even. Eventually, she calmed a bit. Her hands shook as she reached for the knife. She was lucky it was only two inches long… much easier and much smaller a wound to deal with despite her body’s protests.

It was like the carrot metaphor, she reminded herself, the only thing stopping her from biting through her finger was her own mind. The only thing that made her falter was her fear of pain.

Closing her eyes, she yanked the blade out, biting her own shoulder to keep from making a sound. Tears left her eyes as the knife clattered to the tile, her hands grabbing at the towel and putting as much pressure on the wound as possible.

Gasping for breath, Em leaned her head back on the cool wall of the bathroom. She was lucky she still had the needle and thread from mending Coco’s dress.

This new world was bringing something out in her, something dark and raging that she had buried before the bombs dropped. Em wasn’t sure if it was something she was ready to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so as promised here is a brief overview of what happened in that self-harm scene without the triggering stuff:  
> Em got triggered by Venable's actions towards her and brought up old memories and old emotions. She feels an intense rage at what happened -- the kind that makes you want to fight or break something. Instead of finding a proper outsource for this rage, she ends up hurting herself.


	9. Heads Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So sorry it took a bit longer this time to get a chapter out. As always I love hearing from you guys and every comment and Kudos keeps me going. Realy, your support, no matter how small you think it is, means a lot to me.  
> This chapter is a bit slower, in my opinion, but I hope you all will like it!

Em had decided to drop the investigation into the Geiger counter and focus on more productive investigations. The work schedule and manual from Mead’s closet would bear more fruitful and usable data, but it didn’t mean that moving from it was easy. Something about Stu’s death was off, they all knew it. Em knew about answer lay in that single page of shorthand gibberish.

Now they were in the library... her and Emily at least. Timothy was in a meeting. Langdon had the worst timing... or the best. Depended on what eyes you looked with.

A book sat in her lap, closed after she had read the last page. Dante’s _Divine Comedy —_ she had meant to read it above ground but... well she had meant to do a lot of things. As the days went on the more worry she had over an idea of an afterlife. She was desperate for it and if, as an unbeliever, she was cast to hell, she’d much prefer to have an idea what torture she faced.

Frowning, her hand went to her throbbing leg. Em prayed her sewing skills were enough to mend the wound, small but deep. She had dressed it with some cloth from the towel she had bloodied and tied it in place with a ribbon. Most of the time she could hardly feel it, but one wrong move and she was hissing in pain.

Emily was doing some reading of her own, that of the more productive sort. She understood science much better than Em did and was having a go at the Geiger counter note.

“You know what I hate most about stories?” the brunette mused aloud after staring at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes.

Emily’s eyes didn’t leave her book, “What?”

“The ending.”

Her friend's nose scrunched for a moment before she turned to her, “isn’t that the whole point of reading? To make it to the end?”

“It’s sad,” Em sighed, “isn’t it?”

Em shrugged, watching her friend stare at the sky, “depends on the ending.”

“No... happy or not... it’s sad.”

Emily sighed, closing her book and stashing the note in her corset, “I think you’ve been spending too much time in your own head.”

“So have you,” Em reminded.

“Because I’m _trying_ to figure something out.”

This piqued Em’s interest, eyes glimmering with the excitement of something new as she leaned towards her friend. “A mystery.”

Emily laughed and shook her head at the other woman’s antics, “you make it sound dramatic.”

“We’re some of the last people on earth... everything we do is dramatic as there is nothing to compare it to.”

“You’re eccentric, you know that?”

Em was starving for something new to investigate. Her mind needed a focus or else it would go into the worst places. “What’s the _mystery_ , Miss Holmes?”

Her friend rolled her eyes but quickly turned to business.

“Venable is hiding something.”

“Venable is hiding a great _deal_ of things,” Em noted, “that isn’t something _new_. So is Langdon, but that’s part of his job description.”

“Why the secrecy, though?”

“Knowledge is power.”

“But what is the _truth_?” Emily said, “we’ve been here for almost _two years_ and all we’ve found out is when certain Wardens work and decontamination procedures and whatever _else_ is in that manual.”

“Then how do we find out their secret plot?” Em asked, “preferably before we have to put that manual to good use.”

Emily rose from her seat and quickly made sure the library was empty. It wasn’t a particularly _large_ library... about the size of the one at her high-school. She looked down every aisle before coming to sit back down, leaning in close to Em.

“Timothy and I are working one out,”

“ _Oh_?” Em asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emily’s face flushed, “Not like that!”

“Don’t dash the power of a romantic subplot.”

“Did you always speak in poetry or have you finally gone insane?”

“I’ve simply lost my filter,” Em dismisses with a wave of her hand, “this plan of yours?”

“We need you to distract Langdon.”

El laughed, quickly quieting when she realized her friend wasn’t laughing along.

“That man would see right through _any_ attempt.”

“He _likes_ you,” Emily reminded, “why _else_ would he call you to his office so often?”

“Bored cats will _catch_ mice and watch them run around, _barely_ surviving death for hours on end, _just_ for their own amusement.”

“...so Langdon’s a cat.”

“He something _far_ worse.”

Emily sighed, “will you help us or no?”

Em really didn’t want to tell her friend that she would be a hindrance to the investigation due to her injured leg. However, saying that would bring up more questions and she _really_ didn’t want the girl to think she had _completely_ lost her mind. Blackouts were one thing... homicidal urges were something else entirely. And the possibility of them happening at the same time? Not a cocktail she was willing to try.

“Your _best_ bet is to _observe_ his behavior and watch for patterns,” She noted, “find out when he’s distracted. You’re _smart_ , Emily, that’s why you’re here.”

“So you’re _not_ going to help us?”

“I want to live,” Em insisted, “the best I can do is keep silent while you two work. Venable’s already watching me like a hawk and she’d _gladly_ take down all of us if it meant killing me.”

Emily understood her friend’s reluctance. Last time Em had a more hands-on role. She could take action if things went wrong.

“Don’t you want to _know?_ ” She asked, grabbing her friend’s hands and squeezing them, “knowledge is power, right?”

Em remembered her vision, Emily and Timothy laying on the floor while foaming at the mouth. Their eyes staring desperately at the sky as if begging god to spare them.

She cursed under her breath and pulled away from Emily’s touch, pinching her nose and sighing.

“Where do you need me to be?”

* * *

By the time Timothy arrived Em and Emily had long grown bored of talking plans. In all honesty, the less Em knew of what they were doing the better it was. If she got caught there’d be nothing to pry from her. All that mattered was Em would make a distraction at the right time, pretend to search through his office while Timothy and Emily searched his room.

For now, however, they were content to play _Heads Up_ and pretend the real world didn’t exist.

“Am I a pretty… lady?” Em asked. She was never good at this game.

Emily was sitting in Timothy’s lap, draped over him like a cat with her legs propping up on the armrest of the sofa.

“Would she be?” Timothy asked her.

Emily hummed, “I’m not sure.”

“Let me rephrase it,” Em proposed, turning to Emily, “is she my type?”

“Yes,” Timothy answered a bit too quickly, Emily giving him a look and shaking her head.

“But she has—” he tried to reason.

“But she doesn’t have—” Emily reminded, the pair staring at one another until they burst into laugher. Emily curled into Timothy, her head resting in the crook of his neck.

They were interrupted, as always, by a screeching of the library doors. Laughter halted in their throats, eyes turning towards the sound of feet on carpet as silence overtook the room save the small sizzling of melted wax meeting fire.

Mead appeared from the shadows of the room, arms crossed as she came to stand before them. Her eyes narrowed as she realized two-thirds of them had a piece of paper taped to their heads, something written upon them which she could not see.

She turned to Em with and sighed, “Michael wants to see you.

Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Em rolled her eyes and rose from the armchair.

“Who was I?” She asked the pair.

“Gwyneth Paltrow,” Emily said with a smile.

Em turned to Timothy and gave him a look. Her type? Really?

“Oh, honey,” She said, “bless your heart.”

Emily smiled and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “That’s southern for stupid.”

“ _You_ said Pepper Pots could get it!” Timothy exclaimed.

“Pepper Pots is a badass,” Em noted before turning to follow Mead.

“They’re the _same person_!” Timothy shouted, exasperated as Emily’s laughter echoed through the room. It only stopped when the door closed behind Em, sealing off the pair from the rest of the world.

“You have a—” Mead noted, motioning to Em’s head.

“Oh!”

Em laughed and took the card from her head, staring at it for a moment before turning to Mead.

“Do you mind?” She asked the woman, holding out the card. There were some things she’d like Langdon to _not_ know, small as it may be.

Mead sighed, trying to sound annoyed as she took the paper.

“Half the time I don’t know what to expect with you three.”

“Have to pass the time _somehow_.”

“Who’s Gwenneth Paltrow?” Mead asked, opening the paper and turning it back and forth in her hand.

“Actress,” Em told her, side eying the paper and trying not to think of the dull ache in her leg, “always on about that crazy new-age stuff that makes no sense.”

Mead shrugged and pocketed the paper, “never was one for all that crap.”

“Me neither,” Em admitted, “only know the name because she got into some crazy cult shit.”

Her companion let out a barking laugh, an infectious smile crawling onto Em’s lip, “so did half of Hollywood.”

The woman showed no hint of suspicion towards Em. Then again, Mead was the type of person who knew how to control her speech and emotions until it was time to strike.

A familiar sound of a cane caught the pair’s attention as they made it up the stairs— _tap-ta-tap, tap-ta-tap._ Em looked to Mead, trying to read any emotion on her face. There wasn’t… something that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Venable’s face greeted them as they turned onto one of the many upstairs hallways. Em took some satisfaction in the momentary widening of her eyes as the woman saw them. The expression quickly straightened, lips pursed as Venable tore her eyes from Em and laid them upon her escort.

“Miss Mead,” she said, voice reminding the brunette of when her parents pretended they weren’t at one another’s throats just a moment before they sat down for dinner, “May I have a word.”

Mead’s only response was a subtle nod before she turned to Em, “you know the way.”

Em offered her a friendly smile, making sure it remained on her face as she walked past Venable. Her contempt was so easy to read.

“Have a good day, Miss Mead.”

* * *

Langdon was standing by the fire when Em entered. It felt like he hadn’t moved since their last visit, affixed to the same spot she had left him with his hands behind his back. She took a moment to read the room as she closed the door quietly behind her.

There were no wardens in the room, meaning he probably didn’t see them in Mead’s room and that Venable most likely didn’t inform him of her suspicions. So Venable didn’t trust him… that was revealing.

“Is this another interview?” Em asked as she took a few steps forward. She imagined he already knew she was there, but her words finally forced him to turn and acknowledge her. A smile flickered to his lips as he turned to her.

“This time more of a social call.”

“Oh?” she said, a brow quirking up her forehead and a smirk finding it’s way to her lips, “Is _that_ what you’re telling residents now?”

Langdon glanced to the floor, still smiling as he shook his head. Finally, he gestured to a set of armchairs facing the fire. She rounded them, taking the one on her right. Her hands rested on the back as she waited for Langdon to move.

His eyes were focused on her skirt, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. Her awkward gait was obvious to him, slight as the limp may be. Langdon didn’t note it, simply staring at the woman until she finally sat. Em did so with a sigh, eyes turning to the chess set that sat on a small table between them. It looked like he had been mid-game with someone.

“You play?” she asked as he sat next to her, legs crossing as he turned towards her ever slightly.

“On occasion. You?”

“I used to be good once,” She admitted with a rueful smile, hands going to straighten one of the knights, “but I haven’t played since I was a child.”

This visit felt different from the others. Langdon seemed almost relaxed, leaning back into his chair and hands free of any files. The fire crackled before them, making the world feel a little more quiet than usual.

“Why is that?” he asked. She felt his eyes on her but refused to look at him, occupying herself by fiddling with the pieces.

“My parents weren’t overly fond of spending time with me… though they pretended they did.”

“Perhaps I can reteach you.” Langdon offered.

Finally, Em’s head rose from the chess set. He watched as green eyes flickered between himself and the fire, never quite meeting his gaze.

“I’d like that.”

They set to fixing up the chess pieces, exchanging pieces that lay on the other’s side. He chose the black pieces and she took the white — she’d have to make the first move. Though, that wasn’t surprising when it came to conversations with the man.

“You’ve spoken a lot about your parents,” he noted, “what about the rest of your family.”

“Emotionally abusive father and a codependent mother,” she noted, “are a perfect equation for isolation. One that kept us from reaching out to others and ensured that my siblings would rarely return home.”

“You feared him,” he noted, taking a bishop she held out to him, “your father.”

“ _Fear_ ,” she corrected, “present tense.”

“But the bombs—”

“Fear is illogical that way,” Em noted, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“What was your family like?”

Langdon paused, eyes betraying his amusement as he debated what he said next. A few details wouldn’t hurt.

“I was adopted by a family friend after my grandmother committed suicide.”

She didn’t apologize as most people did. Her eyes said enough. He expected the usual questions, the kind one would encounter in therapy. Em was debating which ones would be appropriate.

“Do you miss her?”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

Langdon sighed and placed his last pawn in place, “someone once told me that nostalgia is much nicer than true memories.”

“smart person,” Em noted, moving her first piece — a knight.

“She was.”

He was quick to counter her move, choosing to move a pawn near the outer edges of the board. The fire crackled as a log snapped in two, settling into the center of the fire with a rippling crack.

“I have to admit your quick thinking is intimidating.”

“Take all the time you need,” he reassured.

Her hands hovered over the board, fingers twitching as she ran through possible outcomes in her head. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant.

“So you can pick at my brain while it’s distracted?”

Langdon chuckled, moving a piece after she moved forward another knight, “Something like that.”

A comfortable silence filled the room as they got into the game, Michael’s movements quick while Em took more time to play out moves in her head.

“Are you sure about that?” he had taunted at some point, a devilish grin on his face. Em paused for only a moment. If she didn’t move the rook to take his bishop he’d have _check_ in two.

“Fuck off, Langdon,” she laughed, moving the piece despite his warning. Her laugh was infectious as he shrugged his shoulders and moved another piece.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Langdon won, naturally. Though Em had a feeling he hadn’t played fair. His smugness filled the room, leaning back in his chair with an air of content at having beaten her. It both annoyed and amused her — like when her brother beat her at _Super Smash Bros._

“Another round,” she demanded and he rose a brow, sitting up in his seat. He rose an amused brow and she shook her head. “This time we play checkers.”

“Checkers?”

“I lived in the south,” she reminded, ignoring a stare that displayed how much the man was judging her, “there were Cracker Barrel restaurants on every major exit. One was right across from the college dorms I stayed in.”

“So you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Don’t worry,” she teased, “perhaps I can teach you.”

He smiled and put the chess pieces away as she pulled the checkers out from the compartment inside the board. She set them out and waited for him to make the first move.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Em said as she quickly countered his move. He chuckled at the symmetry of her actions and waved his hand for her to proceed.

“Why was this place designed to fail?”

The way his hand hesitated over his piece betrayed his surprise, quickly recovering and completing his move. Her pieces clicked against the board as she countered, waiting for him to respond.

The blond straightened back into the iron mask he wore around the rest of the residents. “What makes you say that?”

Answering questions with questions. That was also a game she knew well.

“This whole place was designed on the tip of a knife,” She explained, balancing a checker on the tip of her finger, “We’re just waiting to lose our balance.”

To emphasize her point she allowed the checker to fall. It clattered on top of the other pieces she had stolen from Langdon.

“And what would you do to make it better?” he posed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you want me to alphabetically or categorically?”

Langdon leaned back with a short barking laugh. He stared at her with what she’d almost consider pride… the cat’s favorite mouse. He waved a hand again, prompting her to continue.

“Whatever is easier.”

The board lay between them, game abandoned in light of a more interesting chain of events. She mirrored his actions, considering which point to bring up first.

“This place was built by the rich, yes?”

He nodded, watching her intently.

“Why the hell would the _rich_ settle for unfulfilling _cubes_?”

“Those cubes—”

Em cut him off with a sigh, “have all the _nutrients_ we need but not all the _calories_. An extreme _coupon_ mom would have a greater quantity and _quality_ of rations than we do.”

The blond prepared himself for a long conversation, leaning his head against a hand that was propped up on the armrest of his chair. She stared at him, waiting for a response.

“What else?” he asked with a sigh.

“The Cooperative put in place a NASA-esk water filtration unit, but couldn’t find a way to have a self-sustaining food resource?”

“You make it sound easy,” he noted.

“It is,” She stated, “Scientists already had designs in place before the bombs dropped.”

“This does _nothing_ to prove we intended the worst,” He nearly sang.

“Then _why_ do you claim there is a sanctuary more equipped for this? _Why_ is that not the standard for _all_ the outposts?”

Langdon thought back to his first interaction with the girl. Her first accusation. He should have known she’d be trouble from the start… but perhaps he could use this to his advantage. Leaning forward, he moved another piece across the board.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Em was intent to get to her thesis — the final blow.

“You intended this from the beginning — make people desperate enough to see their true colors then pick them off one by one.”

He chuckled, twirling one of her pieces in his hands and he shook his head and stared into the fire.

“ _Someone’s_ done their research.”

“Venable and yourself are the most _openly_ condescending people I’ve ever met… you both think you’re so smart and with this crowd that’s _mostly_ the case.” She said with a scoff.

Em took one of his pieces, then another, “you’re so _pleased_ with yourselves that anyone with a brain can look right through you and see your intentions. No offense.”

“None taken,” he said with a smile, “… _Mostly_ the case?”

“Timothy and Emily were chosen for their genetics. That’s the only good choice The Cooperative has made thus far.”

“Your care for them makes you blind to their faults,” he noted, “no offense.”

“None taken.” Em said, offering a shrug as she collected three more of his pieces, “King me.”

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence. Langdon lost and as she had expected he did so poorly, immediately challenging her to another game. That meant what she had said had some effect on the man. He sought to cover his fumble with conversation as they began the next round, asking about her observations of Outpost Three’s inner-workings.

Even that conversation came to comfortable silence, Langdon far more intent on this game compared to the last. Em stared at him when he wasn’t looking, too busy playing out moves in his head. His lips would twitch ever slightly when he thought.

“Do _you_ ever feel lonely?” she asked him, playing the question in her head a few times before speaking.

“Lonely?” He echoed, voice distant as he finally moved a piece, “I thought we already had this conversation.”

The brunette sighed and stared at the pieces for a long moment as she ran through what to say next.

“Do you ever have that feeling that something is supposed to be there, but isn’t?”

He also took a moment to think, mouth open for a moment as he chose the right words to say, “I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the emotion.”

“You’re lucky then,” She admitted, “sometimes it’s often claustrophobic in nature… like looking for a friend in a sea of thousands.”

“I thought you said you were content with your own company?” he asked, moving his piece to the other side of the board, “king me.”

“I am, but… I can’t place it. It feels _different_ somehow.”

He looked at her, brows knitted together as he moved another piece, “how so?”

“It’s the same _yearning_ I feel for a sense of purpose,” she said, shaking her head and speaking before she could think. Her eyes were on Langdon, but the man could tell she was looking at something past the physical realm. “But more specific. I yearn for some _one_ or some _thing_ , but I can’t place it’s… like I’m looking at it through a fog.”

“We all left things behind in the old world,” he noted, giving her his full attention “perhaps you are searching for something you lost.”

She sighed, “but reminiscing on such things is a fruitless task. Nostalgia is only healthy in small doses.”

“Nostalgia can be good.”

“Too much of _anything_ is a bad thing,” Em noted.

“That it is.”

A buzzing in her head made Em focus back on the game before her. The sound of pieces moving made the blond turn back towards her, out of his thoughts and back into the current moment.

“What is it like?” Em asked, changing the subject, “traveling from outpost to outpost?”

“Is that what prompted your question?” he asked, sighing as he forced his mind back on strategy.

“In part.” She admitted.

“I’d call it a time to reflect,” he noted with a sigh, “but it’s hard to think when you’re keeping an eye out for cannibals.”

Em’s gaze turned to the fire, brows bunched together at the bridge of her nose. Venable had been right. She had somewhat hoped the monsters the woman spoke of would be nothing but fear-mongering.

“It’s only been a _year_ and people are _already_ —”

She cut herself off. Biting her lips and shaking her head, she chided herself, “no… that’s not fair of me to say.”

“Law was the only thing keeping humankind from its unlimited cruelty,” Langdon noted, hardly phased as he got yet another piece to the other side of the board. He was a quick learner. “The outcome isn’t _that_ much of a surprise.”

Em was quick to change the subject, “What did you see out there?”

“Nothing pleasant.”

For some reason, he wished to keep the reality from her. Whether out of compassion or a desire to keep her ignorant, she couldn’t quite tell.

“I’d like to know,” she finally insisted, “Venable has only told us so much and we’re forbidden from leaving the premise… even with hazmat suits.”

Langdon nodded. He expected as much from the two women — Venable and Em. Pausing from the game, he gave her his full attention — turning in his chair and resting his elbows on the armrest closer to her.

“The trees are barren and everything is covered in thick green fog,” he said, slow and methodical as if he were trying to recall every last detail, “the animals have gone rabid or are in the very late stages of cancer. You cannot see the sun in the sky… an eternal night.”

“What about the people?”

“Killing each other for food or simply out of paranoia. Cancer and tumors are the norm for most.”

Her arms had come to brace themselves on the arms of her chair, knuckles white and jaw clenched. She stared into the fire but did not see it, darkness clouding her vision as she was sent back into that first day in the outpost. How many of those messages weren’t their last? How many survived only to face torment? How many had she abandoned in the wastelands?

“The children?” she forced herself to ask, forcing herself to look at him. His eyes widened every slightly before he glanced away, conflicted. She watched his chest rise and fall, his eyes close momentarily as he centered himself before speaking.

“On the way here, I came across a woman,” He told her, “A young mother, with two children. They were some of the unlucky ones who were far from the blast radius to survive the fireball, but… not the radiation.”

Em’s mouth opened every slightly in shock as she realized he was crying, a single tear breaking free and racing down his cheek.

He held his hand up, the other hovering over it and tracing up his arm as he continued to recall the incident before resting at his chest, “they were covered in tumors — sores. Their lungs were burned from the toxic air.”

With a clench of his fists, he fell back in his chair and refused to meet her eye, “After a few moments I realized that the child she was carrying in her arms was dead. She was _begging_ for us to murder her other child out of mercy… she didn’t have the _strength_ to do it herself.”

Em didn’t even realize she was crying until he turned to her. She stiffened as he reached out a hand to her cheek, cupping it and brushing away the tear gently with his thumb.

“Did you?” she asked, voice hardly above a whisper and his hand still on her cheek.

Blue eyes refused to look away from her, “Did I what?”

“Have mercy.”

An emotion she had never seen on him before tainted his features. It made his face fall, his eyes shine in a way that wasn’t pleasant and his lips part every slightly. His hand pulled back from hers and he turned away from her, closed himself off.

“No,” he finally answered, “I couldn’t bring myself to.”

Langdon felt regret… shame.

“I doubt anyone could.”

“Why do you cry for them?” he asked.

“I have nieces and nephews,” she said, “friends and—”

A frog sat in her throat keeping her from speaking. She waited a few moments before clearing her throat and drying her eyes, forcing the unpleasant emotion back from whence it came. After a few more breaths of unprompted tears, she spoke again.

“I’m sorry for bringing up a depressing topic.”

“Knowledge is power,” he noted, “and the desire of power is in our nature.”

Langdon cleared his throat as well before turning back to the game. It seemed both of them were content to pretend the last few moments be forgotten… for now, at the very least.

“What would you do to survive?” he asked her, waiting for her to make a move.

She sighed rather loudly. Naturally, he was using interview questions to take back the power he had relinquished for but a moment. Still made her head feel light like she had whiplash.

“What would I _want_ to do?” she asked, moving a piece without much thought. Langdon was keen to take advantage, quickly moving his piece to take over it. “Or what I would _actually_ do?”

He scoffed, “is there a difference?”

“Of course. I’d like to _think_ I’d preserve some of my humanity — morality and the like.”

“But in _reality_?”

Em opened her mouth and closed it again. What _would_ she do? So far she had certainly become more… _adventurous_ wasn’t quite the right word. Admitting that, however, would be giving him and, in turn, The Cooperative more information than she was willing to part with.

“I don’t know,” she said, “It’s hard to know what you’d do until you are forced to take action.”

“You like to skirt around questions,” he notes, “despite my warning against hedging.”

“ _You_ want honest answers,” she reminded, “that required introspection — especially with these questions. It’s rarely linear.”

“How do you react to conflict?” he asked, sounding like he was reading from a list. Em wouldn’t be surprised if he had all the questions memorized at this point.

“What kind of conflict?”

He sighed, trying to be annoyed but failing as a hint of a smile let itself be known, “Your answers tend towards the circumstantial.”

“C’est la vie,” Em said with a shrug, moving a piece and watching Langdon frown as she captured one of his kings.

“It certainly keeps at least _one_ of these conversations interesting.”

Em gave him a look, “ _is_ this a conversation?”

“We’re _communicating_ , are we not?”

“You’re asking questions and I’m talking about myself for…”

She glanced at the clock in the corner of the room, “… an hour. Not _much_ of a conversation.”

“Therapists would disagree.”

“You’re my _therapist_ now?

He didn’t look at her, but she could see him smirk, “…of a sort.”

The brunette leaned forward in her chair, regarding him for a moment, “Then what do you see?”

Langdon’s head quirked to the side as he eyed her, “I see a woman who hides her insecurities behind bold and intelligent words… a philosopher without students.”

Em could only laugh, sparing him an amused but unbelieving look, “You give me _far_ too much credit.”

“My records indicate you were quite introverted and withdrawn before,” he noted, “What changed?

“When you stare at death he does not care what mask you ware,” she told him, voice distant as if it was not her own, “so why bother with pretenses and polite society?”

“Why, indeed?”

They finished the game, coming to an impasse with two kings following each other across the board. Langdon rose from his chair and wandered over to the pitcher of water from before.

“You care for some?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He turned to her with a Cheshire grin, “what happened to polite society?”

“Born in the south, remember? We mind our P’s and Q’s and say ‘ _bless your heart_ ’ instead of ‘ _go to hell._ ’”

“I hear it’s quite pleasant this time of year,” he said, turning with two glasses of water.

“ _Hocus Pocus_ ,” she noted.

“A staple in my house during Halloween,” he noted, a sad smile coming to his lips.

She rose and took a step forward as he approached her, hand extended to take the glass from his hands. A thankful smile turned tense as too much pressure was placed on her bad leg. After sitting for so long, she had forgotten it was there. She leaned back on her good leg and regulated her expression.

Langdon didn’t seem to notice and she pulled back and carefully lowered herself into the chair, waiting for him to move and do the same. Placing the glass on the table beside her, she turned to make a comment about a third and final match only to find him crouched on the ground.

Red coated his fingers, a small puddle on the ground the size of a silver dollar. One of her stitches must have torn. Of all the timing…

“You’re hurt,” he noted, looking up to her, “where?”

“Oh,” she tried to write off, “it’s embarrassing, but I think that’s— “

His eyes were deadly as he stood and stepped towards her, a growl in his throat, “we _agreed_ not to _lie_.”

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Em lifted up her skirt to reveal the comically small injury that sat three inches above her knee. As she feared, unbinding the bandages revealed the stitching had come undone.

He kneeled down in front of her, hand hovering over the wound. “What happened?”

She tied the bandages around it, resolving to cauterize it later as she knotted the ribbon extra tightly around her leg. Langdon retreated as she threw her skirts over it once more, obviously not wanting to let the incident rest or for her to leave his office without treatment.

“A _fucked_ up side-effect of conditioning.”

Langdon sighed, “this is why I said—”

“I’d be better off acting on my anger?” she snipped, “oh, yes, I remember. You were quite _insistent_ on that point.”

Em averted her eyes, staring past him and into the fire with venom. From the corner of her eye, she could see Langdon sigh, shoulders falling ever slightly.

Her shoulders tensed as she felt a hand upon them, finally turning towards Langdon as she realized he refused to pull away. He wanted to speak, she could tell that from the way his lips pressed together. Why was he speechless? Langdon had a response for _everything_.

Green eyes couldn’t look away from him— his knitted brow and the frown that marred his features. His hand rose to her cheek and all she could feel was her heart beating in her ears as the heat rising up her neck. His thumb ghosted under her eyes, over the tired circles where tears had been not even thirty minutes before.

This strange and witty woman… why did she have such an effect on him?

Hands curled around the back of her neck as he moved her hair from around her face. The pieces she had pinned back had begun to fall from their confines.

His fingers pulled her forward, thumb hovering under her chin. She felt like she was under a spell, unable to move. Did she _want_ to move? All she could feel was her heart trying to force its way through her chest.

She smelled sweet— lavender and earth overwhelming him in the best way. His eyes flickered between her mouth and her eyes, his neck craning to the side as he felt her breath on his face.

Then, she suddenly tensed. Breaking free of the spell, she pulled back— jumping off the chair and past him to the door. She had let her guard down and… she didn’t know what to feel. The hammering in her heart told her to run, but—

“I’m leaving,” She whispered.

Langdon took a step towards her, a hand outreached. He moved as if he were approaching a wounded animal, slow and tentative.

“The interview isn’t over,” he said, hand coming gently around her wrist.

“Yes,” She growled, realizing something that made her steel herself against him and tear her hand from his grasp, “it is.”

“This could forfeit your place—” he began, cursing himself as he realized how he sounded.

“So be it. I don’t care.”

She tried to open the door and his hand went instinctively to keep it from opening. He _needed_ her to understand. He needed—

“I’m not here to hurt you,” He all but pleaded, “take a seat.”

“…You’re right—” she finally said after a moment. His grip on the door loosened and a smile of relief came to his face, tenseness leaving his body.

The door slammed into his head as she threw it open. With a grunt of pain, he fell back and gripped at his head. When he looked up a satisfied smirk was on her face, the door blocking her body from him like a shield.

“— My anger is best used outward instead of inward.” She said, disappearing back into the hall. By the time he stumbled to the door and threw it open once more she was gone… like she had never been there in the first place.

The thought of that terrified him.

* * *

Em was… well, she _wanted_ to pace, but the newly cauterized wound on her leg would have protested too much. So there she was, _seething_ on her bed. Her hands dug into the comforter, pretending it was someone’s throat.

At least this time she had been sure to put away her knife first. Then again, the now blistering skin took care of any destructive and impulsive urges she may have.

She had been blind, the desire for having her life mean something clouding the reality of logic and fact. Langdon _wanted_ her to depend on him. He _wanted_ her to think she was special. Em wasn’t. She was an average person with a tragic childhood. A dime a dozen case.

 _Coco_ probably got the same treatment. They were both single and desperate to survive, desperate to be wanted. Langdon weaponized sex.

… But that wasn’t what it was. Not to Em, at least. It was vulnerability, understanding, trusting someone with—

He was playing with their emotions. _All_ their emotions. Part of her was willing to be strung along. Was certainly an easier route.

With a sigh, she hung her head in her hands. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. To live or not to live… wasn’t that the _fucking_ question? She was supposed to graduate this year, get a shitty job with shitty pay, and live in a shitty apartment. It’s why she had sacrificed so much, stayed in a less than happy place in the hopes that one day— 

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral. Straightening her back and clearing away her misty eyes, Em turned to the door.

“It’s unlocked,” she informed the person on the other side.

“That’s new.”

Emily’s head pocked through the door before she slipped inside, closing the door behind her after checking her six, “You didn’t come to finish our game.”

The bed dipped as she took a seat next to the brunette. Her worry was transparent on her face, lip quirking to the side and eyes focused on Em’s face as she waited for the woman to say something. “We were worried.”

Em could only shake her head, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Though her eyes were focused on the floor, she could feel Emily’s hands cover her own. A familiar squeeze curling around her hand.

“We’ll make it through this,” Emily assured. It did little to convince Em. No matter what the brunette did, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the wrong path.

“And then what?” she couldn’t help but ask, teeth gnashing with every word, “we _leave_ here and play the game somewhere _else_ in some mysterious _sanctuary_ or play _Mad Max_ as we slowly die from _cancer_?”

For once, Emily didn’t have a retort.

“I can’t _live_ like that anymore!” Em hissed, finally turning towards her companion, “My whole life I’ve lived one day to the next just to say I made it another day. I _can’t_! I— “

Her companion could only stare at her friend, mouth open but no words. What could she say? Emily hadn’t much thought about what would happen next, the cost of living. It was quite like what doctors faced, wasn’t it? Determining whether quality of life justified the means to the end. What was the future when they faced the end of the world?

Em shook her head, “I just _can’t_.”


	10. Maestro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back with another chapter! Will I ever write anything shorter than 7,000 words? Probably not lol.  
> As always thank you for your continued support. I love hearing what you guys think of the story--parts you like. parts that make you wonder, parts you find amusing, everything. <3

The place was empty, a shell of a thing made to feel like someone lived in it. It was a temporary office, after all. Venable wasn't foolish enough to leave Langdon a single scrap of information. Em was hitting dead ends everywhere she looked… then again, she was a diversion.

She’d never had a good look at the office before. Venable never called anyone to it and Langdon was a viper you didn’t want to take your eyes off of. It certainly had a unique design. Em imagined they had the numerous candles to thank for that, casting strange shadows around the room. It made it feel like there was always something moving out of the corner of your eye.

There was a partition that led to god knows where across from the main door made of a darker wood to serve as an accent wall of sorts. It probably led to a lounging area given the pattern of the other rooms in the outpost. In front of it was Langdon’s desk, seen right as you entered the room. Two side tables had been rearranged to hold candles, wax hardening as it dripped over the sides.

To the right of the desk was a spiral staircase… again leading to some destination she couldn’t even begin to guess. Beyond that was a wine cabinet. It was empty, more for decoration than storage. A good spot to place a pitcher of water and expensive Waterford crystal glasses.

The fireplace roared to the far left, surrounded by the two armchairs they had sat in before. Another sofa was on the wall near the door and she had a feeling Langdon arranged them however he needed.

Her mother used to watch those shows on interior design. The arrangement of furniture psychologically did something or other. Em had always been more interested in abnormal psychology than environmental. She imagined it was like a painting, the flow of it directing the viewer to what the artist wanted them to see.

 _That_ certainly sounded like something Langdon would do.

Em’s focus, therefore, was on the desk. It was situated out of the flow, the farthest thing away from the fire save for the wine cabinet. She stood on the other side, looking for anything she could.

On the back of his chair was a red scarf that reminded her of one she had before the bombs. It was always her favorite and she always paired it with her favorite dress. God, she’d give anything to wear that dress instead of the constricting skirts that—

 _Focus_ — she reminded herself. Her anxiety was making her thoughts go haywire. Langdon was getting into her head. Memories weren’t going to save her. Holding onto the past wasn’t going to save her. Her rage wouldn’t save her.

Manila folders were scattered on the desk. Her hands hovered over the one with her name on it, but she forced herself to look past them. As curious as she was, knowing if Langdon thought she was a good candidate or not wasn’t going to get her any closer to the truth. Desk drawers were where he’d hide the things he didn’t want to be seen.

Tying her hair up with a ribbon, Em crouched down. The doors weren’t locked… the desk older and expensive. That only meant she didn’t have to leave behind another hairpin.

There wasn’t much. She wasn’t expecting anything. If Langdon had secrets, they’d be in his room. She wondered if Timothy and Emily had found anything yet. They had told her to be a distraction, but they never told her how long she needed to be one.

  
  


_“Are you sure you don’t want backup?” Emily asked._

_Em shook her head, voice coming out dull and tired, “Like I told you: I’ve already crossed myself off the list of survivors.”_

_The night before she had hardly been able to sleep. Fever dreams plagued her every time she closed her eyes. She only remembered flashes. It gave her the feeling of being somewhere between a revelation and an acid trip. All she recalled was choking, gasping for air. Her stomach burned with something more than starvation and the world spun around her._

_“It’s probably one of his games,” Emily noted, not bothering to hide the venom from her voice._

_Her words pulled Em out of her reverie._

_“Cat and mouse,” the brunette noted with a sigh._

_“He can still make your life worse,” Timothy reminded. Sending a worried glance to Emily._

_Em scoffed, “Only if I let him.”_

  
  


The top drawer was small, enough to fit the vial of pills Langdon had shown them. Glancing back at the door, Em plucked one out and put it in her pocket. Insurance — she told herself like she was a spy out of noir mystery.

Second drawer down was filled with random books from the library. Nothing more than an original Hawthorne and other similar authors. She flipped through them, looking for a note-card or even something written in the margins. A few coffee stains were the most she was able to find.

Reaching in for the last book, she was surprised when she pulled out a journal. It wasn’t old and certainly _wasn’t_ Victorian, something you would have found in a _Target_ or _Staples._ A quick flip through revealed handwriting. Langdon's? No. There was a message written inside the cover which read: ‘ _Michael — May this be a symbol of—’_

Em’s head flicked to the door as she heard approaching footsteps. Quickly, she threw the books back in the order she had found them. Then closed the drawer as quietly as she could before she threw herself into the chair across from the desk.

The door opened a few moments later and she evened her breathing. Footsteps paused, the person behind her halting before continuing to move.

“I must say you never fail to surprise me,” Langdon noted as he approached, footsteps slow and even behind her, “I don’t recall calling you for an interview.”

He paused at her shoulder, eyes glimmering with amusement. Langdon was eager to hear what excuses she would create. Em had imagination. It made everything she said all the more interesting.

“I came to see you,” was all she gave him, looking over her shoulder as he smirked and broke from her gaze and rounded the desk.

“Come now,” he said, voice light and amused. Blue eyes scanned over the files that weren’t even a hair out of place and gesturing towards her as he sat. “I know you too well to believe that.”

Em didn’t respond, a slight raise of her brow and twitch of her lip the only reaction he could gauge.

He chuckled and shook his head, hands placed on the desk on either side of him.

“Venable would call this an offense worthy of execution,” Langdon noted, attempting to sound intimidating. She showed no fear. He didn’t expect her to.

“And you?” she prompted, her mouth moving before she could think. The adrenaline made her feel detached from her body like someone else was pulling the strings.

The blond leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and resting his head on top of his fists.

“I find it amusing,” He noted, “what did you find?”

Em smirked, “nothing interesting.”

She watched his brows raise, “ _Oh_?”

“You _knew_ someone was going to come in here,” she noted, “or you were _hoping_ someone might.”

The man showed no emotion. Sometimes it felt like he knew exactly what she was going to say. Either he was reading her mind or entertaining her like the cops did when conspiracy theorists came around talking about aliens. She felt like the latter more than the former on most days.

“Did I?”

“A man so intent on secrecy wouldn’t leave confidential files on his desk and his door unlocked.”

“ _You’re_ a _fascinating_ candidate, for sure,” Langdon noted, face brightening with a grin as he fell back into his seat.

Em shrugged, “I’d say the same, but I don’t really know you.”

The man cocked his head, “ _don’t_ you?”

“You’ve made sure of it.”

Whatever glee he had found in their exchange was quickly smothered. The tone of her voice made it clear that past incidents would not be forgotten. He knew she’d be a better friend than foe.

Lips pressing into a thin line, Langdon sighed. He rose and gestured to the fire. Em watched him as he round the desk and sauntered towards the armchairs before making a move to follow. His movements were slow and methodical, taking his time as he searched for the right words to say. His knuckles rested on his lips as he sat, reminding her of the statue _The Thinker_.

“I feel as though we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” He finally said as she sat. She turned her chair to face him and he did the same. “I can _appreciate_ someone who searches for _truth_ above all else.”

Em only laughed, “You’re going to tell me the _truth_? We’ve danced this dance already.”

A rueful look crossed his face as he chuckled only to mirror her own laughter. He couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. If he was in her seat, he wouldn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth. If he were to gain her trust his _actions_ would have to speak _louder_ than his words.

“Then I promise no more deception,” he proposed, “As long as you do so in turn.”

Her eyes burned him, searching his eyes for something. He met her gaze which showed no sign of turning away. This moment would change everything.

“A momentary truce?” she asked, fishing for specifics. When you made a deal with the devil you had to eliminate loopholes. A buzz filled her body… probably from anxiety and giving her a feeling that made the world feel like a dream.

“A promise.” The blond assured, voice as earnest as he knew how to be. Their conversation had become hushed and intense as if the world would cave in on itself if they spoke too loudly.

“Promises are a dangerous thing,” she noted, “I find many do not put as much weight into them as I do.”

The man made no rebuttal. Any word would be hollow and without true meaning. He just stared at her and waited, hoping she would find the evidence of truth she was searching for in his eyes.

He had played her before, making her think she was important. This time she could predict his moves. It would require double and triple-checking over each piece of information he gave her. She'd have to work under the assumption he was always lying, but—

“Alright,” She relented, “What are your terms?”

Langdon’s shoulders fell, the tension in them finally dissipating.

“Simple,” He assured, “ _Nothing_ I tell you leaves these walls; _nothing_ is to be said to the others about our bargain, and _nothing_ will be done to compromise my mission.”

Em took in the information and nodded. She expected as much. She looked at her feet and considered her options for a moment before raising her head, a hand held out.

“Deal.”

He took her hand and shook it, squeezing it to convince himself it was there. When he looked into her eyes, however, he found that nothing had changed. The pupils dilated and held the same amount of scrutiny as before. If he wanted her on his side, he’d have to work for it.

Em’s heart leapt in her chest the second she took his hand. She was making a deal with a devil and she knew the weight in that. Only time would tell if she had sold her soul for nothing. Either way, better the devil you knew than the devil you didn’t. Besides… she was good at working with loopholes.

* * *

Dinner was tense. Then again, it was always tense. More so with Langdon’s presence. He never joined them, but it felt like he was lingering in every shadow. He was the bogeyman of Outpost Three.

Em had been quiet during dinner. Emily assumed her silence was from nerves. They had completed their investigation earlier in the day. The brunette was no doubt itching for answers and Emily was itching to provide them. The computer was their pot of gold, the ultimate weapon against Venable’s rule.

After dinner, they retired to the salon for mandatory cocktails. Coco’s complaining had once again turned to boasting about almost everything. She acted like she was already one of the survivors, Gallant joining in for good measure. Emily’s mother always said the best thing to bring what you wanted into your life was to act like you already had it. It was probably some kind of psychological method Em no doubt had a definition for. Coco's behavior was something else entirely. It was pattern of behavior even Emily knew the definition for — _overcompensation_.

In the light of the fire, Em’s eyes looked different. They looked colder…more calculated. It was as if staring into the fireplace would make it explode and put an end to the nonsense that surrounded them.

Em was reflecting on her deal and the darkness that had consumed her soon after. The whole thing felt like a dream, like she wasn’t in full control of her body. Perhaps it was just her anxiety… that, mixed with starvation, would make her light-headed and give her a dream-like feeling across her body.

She didn’t remember leaving his office, coming to in the middle of dinner. Another blackout. The feeling was like being put under during a medical operation, a blink of an eye and you were awake once again. It didn’t help that her whole body felt like it was buzzing, her bones feeling like they were shaking in her skin. It was unpleasant, to say the least.

Emily spared another glance at her friend who was now closing her eyes and pinching her nose. Another migraine, most likely. Coco’s monologuing probably wasn’t helping the fact.

She leaned back on Timothy with a sigh. Raising her glass to her lips, she waited for the required socialization to be over. Brown eyes flickered over her companions. Dinah and Andre were whispering amongst each other, no doubt mocking the blonde given the flickering smiles that came to their lips. Gallant seemed to be the only one actually giving Coco his full attention and even _he_ had a distant look in his eye.

Her eyes raised to the balcony above them, Greys running here and there. They didn’t even turn their heads at Coco’s theatrics. There was one carrying laundry, another polishing the railing. Emily scanned over each one until her eyes rested upon an outlier.

There Langdon stood, golden hair catching the light and staring down at them. Following his gaze, she found his eyes rested upon her friend who was staring into the fire. When she looked back up at the man, she found his eyes on her and she quickly averted her gaze.

“Langdon’s watching,” she whispered to Timothy.

“What?” He asked, stiffening a bit and moving to turn until Emily whacked him on the arm.

“Don’t!’ she hissed.

“I’m just saying,” Coco went on, patting at her hair like a model about to walk on a catwalk. She was loud enough to pull everyone out of their thoughts… probably intentional. “if anyone should be chosen it should be someone who knows how to _empathize_ with others.”

Andre scoffed, eying the girl up and down with disdain, “You have the empathy of a _snake_.”

Em sighed as the buzzing became more intense. Why couldn’t they have _one_ quiet evening? Her vision swam for a moment before images flashed in front of her eyes — dead bodies on the floor, foam gathering at their mouths.

Then she was back in the salon, pain striking through her head like someone had stabbed her with an icepick. Pressing her head into her hands, she willed it to go away, but the abrasive voices of her companions ensured it didn’t and her pain surged with every word.

“Look,” Coco snapped, smirking at the man as her head bobbed, “people _want_ to _be_ me. They _follow_ me because they see something _they_ like — _that’s_ _useful_.”

Evie laughed, light and mocking, “Exploitation is _hardly_ a marketable trait.”

“No one asked you!” Coco snipped, turning on the woman like a shark smelling blood in the water, “Maybe _that’s_ why your acting career tanked. People find someone _younger_ more _relatable_.”

“People follow you for the same reason they watch reality TV,” Em finally spoke. Her voice was bored and distant. “to look at your life and thank _god_ it's not theirs… to laugh at your ignorance and missteps.”

Coco gaped before huffing, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. She sputtered out responses she couldn’t hear.

A large smirk had crawled across Gallant’s face, eyes crinkling with amusement. He lowered his glasses to stare at the pair with his own eyes. It was distasteful.

“Oh, shut up, Gallant,” Em snapped as he let out a barking laugh, “you’re hardly any better.”

“Who _pissed_ in _your_ cheerios?” Coco finally snapped, glaring at the girl.

Em’s voice was frighteningly calm, “You. For a year or so you’ve sounded like a S _napchat_ ad on loop. Your hypocrisy was annoying at first but—”

“I don’t have to deal with this!”

Coco rose from her seat like a fire was on her ass. Her face red from either rage or embarrassment… or both.

“Up! Yours!” she shouted, stalking away and pausing at Gallant’s shoulder. When he didn’t move, she gave him a look and kicked at his foot. The man sighed and slowly followed after her. Turning on his heel, he raised a glass at the room before downing it and placing it in the hands of a nearby Grey. They could hear Coco’s raving as she hurried down the halls — mostly Em’s name and choice expletives.

The woman in question only sighed and took a sip of water. Her head thanked her for removing the object of its irritation. Emily looked at the rest of the room, on edge but none the less relieved.

“Finally, some peace and quiet,” she muttered, earning a few chuckles in response. Timothy rose his own glass to hers.

“Cheers to that.”

The rest of the room raised their glasses. Silently, they threw back their drinks and resumed their nightly ritual of staring off in the distance and wondering what their fate may be.

* * *

There was only one place in the outpost no one came to. The library was her sanctuary, but even it was prone to invasion by Timothy, Emily, or anyone else who knew her. Here, however, she was safe for as long as she wished.

It was the staple of a luxury private boys’ school, a grand piano that sat front and center of a circular room with high ceilings. A tightly wound spiral staircase off to the side, framed by Greek marble columns. A door sat on every level but rarely did one walk through them. Bookcases framed the room, tall enough to warrant a finely crafted ladder. Every page on the shelf pertained to music — dedicated to either theory or song.

Gallant and Coco had found the room when they first arrived. Em would come to it only to turn around when the grating sound of bad notes echoed down the hall. They had soon grown bored of it, much to her relief.

Andre used to linger there with Stu, eyes filled with adoration as he watched him play. Sometimes they’d duet, one taking the low notes and the other the high. Em remembered the laugher. The memory of it was enough to make her cry. She didn’t blame the man for never returning.

She was no Mozart... Certainly no Stu, but she knew enough to pluck chords to her favorite songs. Em had never truly learned to play. Her reading of bass cleft was painfully slow, but she had a good ear. After some practice and a few improvisations, the songs came to sound somewhat presentable.

The only good thing her father gave her was music. He had been in a band… _‘had’_ being the keyword. Instruments littered their house, unused and untouched for years. Em would always wait for him to leave to play them.

Hands skimmed over the keys. Long and dainty fingers twitched as she searched for a note and settled into place. When she needed to quiet her mind, she’d try to remember the chords to her favorite songs. Music pushed anxious thoughts to the background and all that mattered was the melody. The intro to _City of Stars_ echoed upwards, a piece she had mastered back in high-school.

Who knew four years later she’d be in high-school 2.0?

She missed her friends. The people here were cruel and callused, so rich that she couldn’t relate to them if she tried. Emily and Timothy tried their best but fell short in the memory of those she’d left behind. Some she knew upwards of a decade. They were _dead_ … all _dead_.

 _“I don’t want to die, Em,”_ they had begged, _“please don’t let me die.”_

Each one of them deserved so much more. _They_ were more qualified than Coco, more qualified than Gallant, more _qualified_ than any _purple_ in this _fucking_ hellhole.

 _City of Stars_ devolved into _Moonlight Sonata_. She only remembered the first page or so, some of the notes added in because she thought they _sounded_ right. It was a peaceful, but she always played it with anger. Each note she hit with intensity, giving a feeling of doom more than serenity. It was the type of anger than accompanied grief, the gaping void it left where your heart once beat.

“How long have you played?”

Langdon thought he was being stealthy, but her reaction told him that she knew he was there the whole time. She only sighed, fingers running over a scale as he came to stand beside her.

“I was never formally trained... not for long, at least,” she said, “I use to try and play songs on an out of tune piano before that.”

“Classical or modern?”

Em smiled a bit, “If you count the first few stanzas of _Moonlight Sonata_ as classical training.”

“I fancy the violin myself.” He noted, watching her pluck out another tune.

“I as well,” she said, “ _that_ instrument I know far better.”

He smiled and motioned to the seat beside her on the bench, brow raised in an unasked question. Em waved a hand and he sat, watching her fingers as she plucked out a small, quiet melody. It was her way of fidgeting.

“Who are we mourning?” He asked, leaning on his knees. He had turned opposite of her, facing the door as she faced the piano. It give her some semblance of space.

She didn’t look at him, focus still on the notes, “Who says I was mourning?”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he hummed, “your reaction to Coco says otherwise.”

“What?” She said, stopping the music to give him her full attention, “You can read minds now?”

“Not yours,” he admitted, looking into her eyes, “but I’d like to think I can make an educated guess.”

The brunette pulled away from his gaze, hitting a note with her finger and letting it sit.

“You play?”

He dropped the subject.

“No,” he admitted, turning around to face the piano, “never had the time.”

With two fingers he tapped out to play basic _chopsticks_.

“It’s all math, you know,” she told him, watching him hit random notes, “or at least so they say.”

Langdon grinned, unsurprised, “you say otherwise.”

“I don’t see math,” Em explained, hands hovering over the keys once more, “I see patterns that turn into a larger story.”

“A story?”

She placed her hands over the keys, her hand but a breath away from his own as she began to play.

Then she began to sing, “ _It goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor chord and the major lift. The baffled king composing hallelujah_.”

“I’ve never been one for religion,” He told her once she trailed off, voice a quiet murmur. If he shifted over even an inch, her face would be a breath away from his own.

“It’s not a song about _religion_ ,” she corrected, turning to face him and finally realizing their proximity. Her eyes flickered to his lips, but she made no attempt to move away. “It’s a song about _faith_. Judaism is much different than Christianity. It's based more in culture than our typical conventions of religion.”

“Faith is fragile,” Langdon noted, “it makes things seem stronger than they really are.”

“It’s the closest mortals can get to divinity,” Em countered, “to look upon something and... _completely_ believe in it without a single doubt.”

A sad smile came to her lips, “I may not envy the religious, their rules and structures, but… I _envy_ their faith.”

Her eyes finally rested on his and Langdon felt like he was really and truly seeing her for the first time.

“Do you have faith in anything?” he asked after a beat of silence.

“No,” She answered, her response needing little thought, “it’s why I envy them.”

Langdon smiled the same rueful smile she had moments before. They stared at each other. Em realized if she leaned in only a few inches she’d be close enough to kiss him. The question was if she _wanted_ to kiss him or if he wanted to _manipulate_ her into kissing him. She realized her hand had come to sit atop his own.

“We’re being honest, yes?” Em finally asked after a moment of consideration.

Langdon simply hummed an affirmative, more focused on her hand than anything else.

“Why do you seek me out? Why do you call me to meetings more and find me when you don’t?”

He chuckled a bit, so quiet Em could hardly hear it, “that is the question. One I’ve been asking myself over and over.”

Em was afraid to ask the next question, but she knew it needed to come out to the open.

“Does this actually _mean_ anything or—”

“Yes,” he answered as her mouth opened to speak the next word, “it does.”

Finally, she let out a breath, nodding as she took in the information.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Langdon’s eyes looked almost pained, but he knew her pause was logical. It was the same logic that made him wonder if she was using him to survive.

“You don’t,” he said, more an observation than a response.

Her lips pressed into a line, eyes flickering away from his as she tried to find the words to say.

“In your first interview,” he noted, “you said your sexuality was complicated. Why?”

“Asexuality,” she explained. Her words came out slow as she weighed each one in her mouth before speaking them into the world. “means I don’t feel _sexual_ attraction. Aesthetic and emotional attraction, yes, but I can’t look at a stranger and—”

She sighed, “In a relationship in which I fully and completely have trust in the other… maybe. But it would be more of an _emotional_ connection than a sexual one to me.”

“A relationship based in faith,” he noted.

“Exactly,” she said. Green eyes flickered away from his once more. “and that is something which is earned, not given.”

“And you won’t until you see your name on the list of survivors.”

Her brows knitted and her eyes focused on their hands. It sounded so manipulative when he said it that way, but it was true. That was the only way for Langdon to prove he wasn’t playing a game with her, using her emotions as a mean to an end and even then—

Langdon turned his head as he heard something down the hall, pulling away from her and raising from the seat. Em suddenly felt cold, her body growing accustomed to his presence. She watched as he buttoned his dinner jacket and straightened his sleeves.

“We’ll speak again soon,” he assured, voice back to the one he used in interviews when he was nothing more than a Cooperative representative.

“Goodnight,” She said, voice quiet, “ _Mr._ Langdon.”

“Goodnight, Emily,” He said, dipping his head in a final farewell. Then he was gone.

She waited back a good while, trying to clear her mind with music and failing miserably. What were her feelings towards him? What were her feelings towards her fellow residents? Could she really sit here while Emily and Timothy—

Her head began to buzz and she started the trek back to her room. Pace slow and steady, a million thoughts filled every step. Brows furrowed and showed no sign of relaxing. It wasn’t until she caught movement out of the corner of her eyes that she was pulled out of her own head.

Down the hall stood a black figure in Latex with its back to her. Breath hitching in her throat, she watched it walk down the hall and pause outside Gallant’s room. She stumbled backward towards her door, hand shaking as she tried to unlock it with her key.

It fell to the ground with a sharp metallic sound and her eyes flew wide as the figure turned to her. The lack of features terrified her and she rushed to grab the key, shoving it into the lock and rushing into the room.

Em slammed the door shut, pressing her back to it as she turned the lock. She stood there for a long moment, picturing each step the thing would take.

Covering her mouth, she quieted her breathing so she could hear footsteps. There were none. Not for one second… not for two… not for ten. A loud slamming of a door made her jump, the thing taking another path. Perhaps she wasn’t much of a threat… or maybe it was trying to lure her out.

Taking quick strides across the room, she grabbed the chair from her desk and dragged it across the floor. With deft hands, she placed it under the knob and tested it a few times to make sure the chair wouldn’t topple to the ground.

There was something about that thing… person… whatever it was. It made the air feel thick around her — more like tar than oxygen. It didn’t feel like a person. It felt like a sentient shadow.

* * *

“Gallant!” Coco exclaimed as the hairstylist entered the salon. It was late, only a few Greys in the halls. The man in question looked disheveled. His shirt had become untucked and hair poking up in all directions as if he had just woken from a nap. He picked up a glass of water and eyed it before taking a sip. “Gallant! Gallant!”

He had barely a moment to turn towards the woman before she was hurrying up to him, biting her lip to keep whatever she was going to say from bursting forth. She patted at the air in front of her, aiming for his hand but missing terribly.

“I just saw the _craziest_ thing.”

He quirked his brow, thinking of his rendezvous a few minutes ago and playing dumb. “What?”

Coco either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She pulled the man to the couch like a child at Christmas and looked around to ensure they weren’t overheard.

“I just saw Langdon and Emily kiss,” she whispered, “Well… _almost_ kiss. There was more _talking_ than anything, really, _but_ —”

Gallant gave the woman a look, brows scrunching in confusion, “I thought Emily had the hots for Timothy? Aren’t they like… dating?”

“ _No_!” Coco exclaimed with a roll of her eyes before quieting her voice once more, “Not _that_ Emily!”

Gallant sighed, twirling the water in his hand, “ _this_ is why we gave them _nicknames_.”

“That’s not important!” Coco hissed, “What if she’s like… _seducing_ him to get into the sanctuary.”

“ _Em_? _Seducing_ someone?” Gallant said with a scoff, “unless the person has a thing for random, unimportant facts—”

“It’s not funny!” Coco hissed. She leaned forward even more for the sake of secrecy. “They seemed to be talking about something _really_ serious! What if she takes my— _our_ spot in the sanctuary?”

“Look,” Gallant sighed, leaning forward. He had just had _sex_ with the man… there was no way he’d make a move on a girl. Not with _that_ kink. “This is between you and me, but I got a good read off Langdon and he _definitely_ likes _guys_.”

“How can you be _sure_? What if he’s _bi_?”

The hairdresser gave his friend a look, “Has my gaydar _ever_ led you astray?”

“I’ve had a boyfriend as long as we’ve known each other,” Coco reminded.

“And _who_ got a hit off that guy who tried to flirt with him at that Hollywood party?”

Gallant rose his brow for emphasis as Coco gaped like a fish, unable to find a response. Finally, she rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she relented, “I’m not going to argue with you, but how do you explain what I saw?”

“He’s using her, _obviously_ ,” Gallant said, “he knows she’s a flustered _virgin_ and is making her sweat to get what he wants.”

“You better be right,” Coco says, “or its both our heads on the block.”

“Trust me,” Gallant assured, reaching over the couch to grab another champagne glass of water and handing it to the woman, “would I ever lead you wrong?”

Coco tried to keep a serious face but ultimately failed. With a sigh, her shoulders sagged and she gave a halfhearted smile to her friend. Gallant grinned and clinked their glasses together.

“We’re getting into that sanctuary,” Gallant says, “your dad _bought_ the tickets. He kills off _paying_ residents and the Cooperation or _whatever_ it’s called they’re going to have a _riot_.”

“Yeah, but my _dad_ is _dead._ ”

“But _you’re_ not.”

The pair were unaware of the shadow lingering above them. Langdon felt nothing but disgust when he looked upon the pair. Blue eyes filled with venom and his upper lip twitched as he pulled himself away from the scene.

“What do you mean?” Coco’s voice echoed down the hall, clashing with the sound of his steady footsteps. They weren’t nearly as quiet as they thought they were.

The hairdresser had fallen for his ploy. Shadows were so easy to manipulate, visions so easy to produce. Outpost three would fall into chaos without him lifting a finger.

A few Greys paused as he passed, heads bowed to hide their faces. His interviews with them had proved less than fruitful. They were all the same. Either they wilted under the weight of the new world or filled with anger by their oppression. An anger which aimed at either Venable or the Purples or both. It meant little to him, what they thought. They were but his pawns, protecting their king, protecting their—

The blond paused as he spotted a figure down the hall. Their back to him and facing the elevator. Quirking his head to the side, he approached them. A smile forming on his lips as he recognized the familiar brown hair.

“A sheep should not wander far from the flock,” He teased, stopping in his tracks and waiting for her to turn. When she didn’t his brows furrowed and he took a few slow steps towards her.

When he came to her back, he realized her hand hovered over the control panel, the lights blinking in an odd pattern. Still, she showed no sign of knowing he was even there.

Growing concerned, he placed a gentle hand on her arm and turned her slowly to face him. Her eyes were blank as she faced him, her usual light gone. He placed a hand on either arm as she swayed a bit.

“Emily,” he spoke, crouching a bit to look in her eyes, “Emily.”

She blinked slowly as if she was waking from a dream, eyes seeming heavy with sleep. He didn’t rush her, searching her eyes for any sign of something wrong. When awareness finally returned to her, she jumped back out of his grip and look around wildly. Langdon’s hand hovered close to her, seeing her waver on her feet.

“Are you alright?”

Her brows knitted with confusion. She turned here and there as she tried to put pieces of the puzzle together. She was scared, anxious, but doing her best to mask it. “I… think so.”

“You file never mentioned you were prone to sleepwalking,” he noted.

“Because I’m not,” Em said, nose scrunching as she tried to see. She didn’t have her glasses, the world around her cast in a semi-blurry fog. Looking down she realized she was still in her nightdress. At least she hadn’t been sleeping naked…

“Sorry to… concern you,” She apologized. Her attention was more on figuring out how she got there than on her words. “... I should go back to bed.”

Ignoring his presence, the brunette turned and started to walk back down the hall. Her body had other ideas, however.

The world spinning around her, making her head light and her legs jelly. Gritting her teeth, she felt herself fall into the wall, hands flying out to keep herself vertical.

Langdon was quick to catch her, one hand on her hip and the other holding up her arm. His lips pursed, the rest of his face twisting with concern. Em didn’t see it, too busy scrunching her eyes shut and trying to center herself with no avail. The floor didn’t feel real below her feel.

“Perhaps I should escort you back to your room,” Langdon noted, earning a shake of the head from the woman he held up.

“No sign of interaction, remember?” She reminded, “It’s fine. I’ll—”

The blond’s voice was firm and left no room for argument, “I insist.”

Em sighed. She didn’t have the energy and, more importantly, the _strength_ to fight him. “Alright.”

They started walking almost agonizingly slow. Langdon would have offered to carry her, but he was sure the woman would only tell him off and crawl to her room instead. Holding up one of her arms and his own curling around her back for support, they took it one step at a time.

“Something can be said about the extent of your independence,” He noted. She tried to walk out of his grasp, subtly shaking him off. Her reply was short and terse.

“My mother raised me to solve my own problems.”

He did nothing to hide his annoyance, “part of _solving_ problems is _knowing_ when do ask for help, wouldn’t you say?”

“Vultures will follow weak animals for miles until they drop,” She replied, “ _some_ people are no different.”

“So, you aren’t _entirely_ without trust.”

She glanced at him, “I just have high standards.”

“Am I up to standard?”

“Meh,” she teased, “you’re getting there.”

Langdon chuckled, “you wound me.”

Another wave of dizziness hit her like a brick wall. Stopping in her tracks, she closed her eyes again and breathed through it. This was certainly a new symptom to add to the ever-growing list.

“This will count against my evaluation, won’t it?” she asked once she got moving again.

“I thought you didn’t _care_ what the outcome was.”

“I _prepared_ myself for the worst,” She noted. The sight of stairs made her grimace and she prepared herself for the challenge. “retain any dignity I have left. Just because I’m _prepared_ for death doesn’t mean the thought of it doesn’t _terrify_ me.”

“Where do you think you’ll go?” he asked after a moment of silence. It was as if their conversation from earlier had never stopped.

The question caught her off guard, “pardon?”

“Most people have a concept of heaven or hell.” He noted.

She chuckled, “I’d take either.”

“You’d subject yourself to eternal damnation?”

“Afraid of the nothingness, remember? I’d rather be tortured for eternity.”

They finally made it up the last step, taking a moment to pause as Langdon adjusted his grip.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What _about_ me?”

“Heaven or hell,” she pushed, “I already gave my answers so _technically_ you can’t sway me.”

“So, it is…” he said, sounding almost proud, “ _technically_.”

“So?” she said, stopping and showing no hints at moving until he gave her what she wanted.

“Hell."

“Is that due to belief or desire?”

“A bit of both,” he admitted, smiling at a joke only he knew, “who knows— perhaps I’ll take over Hades.”

Em laughed. He quite liked the sound of it. “And become Satan himself?”

“Something like that.”

They started moving again, finding his response satisfactory.

“And what would you do?” she asked, “once you became ruler of hell?”

She turned her head to him at his silence, catching a brief glance at his smug face.

“Classified,” he noted.

“Ah yes,” she sighed, “I suppose it does wander into the category of leading the witness, but I thought we made a promise.”

“Does this look like my office?”

Em shook her head and kept pressing forward. God, they were going at the pace of a snail. Usually, she’d be frustrated beyond belief. Langdon made the journey somewhat tolerable.

“You know my nickname in high-school used to be Satan,” She found herself saying to break the silence that took over them.

Langdon laughed and rolled his eyes, “of _course_ it was.”

Em narrowed his eyes at him, judging his reaction, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he assured, “how did this name come about?”

The brunette was eager to tell the tale… perhaps a bit _too_ eager.

“I was in middle school,” she began, “at a sleepover. The girls were still up a giggling, but I had gone to bed. They said I rose up around three in the morning, ordered them to go to sleep in the voice of the devil himself, and laid back down.”

Her companion chuckled, “That’s all?”

“The fact that I remembered none of it certainly added to the effect.”

Finally, they reached his door. Langdon almost looked disappointed at the fact.

“Thank you for helping me,” Em said, humor replaced with sincerity.

“Consider it a favor for a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

A smug smirk crawled on his lips, “I haven't decided.”

Em rolled her eyes, “of course.”

“Do _try_ to keep out of trouble,” Langdon pressed, tone serious but light, “If _you_ go and get yourself killed, _I’ll_ be stuck with the paperwork.”

She mirrored his smirk, pulling herself out of his arms to lean on the doorframe. Pride forbidding her to stay in his arms any longer than necessary. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m feeling spiteful.”

His eyes flickered between her eyes and lip before he took a step back. Nodding a goodbye, he turned on his heel and made his way down the hall. Em turned to open her door, only to find it stuck. She checked the knob and realized it was still locked. When she pushed on it heard the familiar sound of a chair spoke hitting the wood.

Outpost Three was getting stranger and stranger and Em was swept along for the ride. With a sigh, she looked down the hall to find Langdon had vanished.

Allowing herself to fall against the door, she weighed her options. Flopping around the outpost hardly seemed a good idea. Her best bet was waiting for her fellow Purples to wake and get her some help or a Grey to wander by and get the master-key. Until then, she planned out a lie. Blackouts would make her stick out more and the last thing she wanted was to give Coco a _reason_ to call her crazy.


	11. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. Got this chapter written out pretty quickly because I'm super excited for what comes next. There's one more chapter until we get into arc 2 of the fic. At that point, I'll probably take a break from updates until I finish planing out some stuff (probably about two weeks or so).  
> Thank you as always for your comments and Kudos!

The room  was filled with the cracking of the fire. After her interaction with Coco, she and Gallant had upped the drama tenfold.  Em felt like she was back in high-school -- the wanna’-be  Abercrombie and Fitch models and  America’s Got Talent stars whispering amongst themselves and snickering .  You always knew they were talking about you because they  wanted you to know they were talking about you, eying you up and down  just to make a point .

So Em wandered to Langdon’s office.  She had grown up, but it didn’t make the pair’s antics any less annoying. They had taken up the library as a show of power so the brunette had gone to the only place they couldn’t go.

Curled up on the sofa, Em was writing in a journal.  Her knees pulled up to her chest and the radio playing  lightly in the background, she could almost pretend she was back home on a rainy day .

Langdon was working across from her at his desk, typing away at a laptop he had smuggled inside. Ever so often, she’d look up at him. His eyes were always focused on the task at hand. Dark brows would furrow as he turned away from the screen to check something he had written down in a notebook.

It amused Em. So, he  did have work on a higher level, beyond the interviews and selections.

“What’s your opinion in regards to your fellow residents?” Langdon asked out of the blue.  It took a moment for his words to process, but after a moment she finally responded, eyes still focused on her notebook .

“With all the lurking you do I suspect you know my opinions.”

“You  hate them,” He noted, still typing away at his laptop, “Yet you help them. Why?”

“I reserve my  hate for people that matter,” She corrected, “They  annoy me.”

“Yet you help them.”

Em sighed and looked up at him, offering a half-hearted shrug, “I’ve always had a problem saying ‘no,’ and Coco isn’t used to hearing it .”

It wasn’t  entirely true. She had said those words to him ample times… Venable as well. It meant she deemed Venable as  deserving of her anger, but what about Langdon? What did he mean to her to warrant being able to say that one simple word?

He didn’t push it.

“Gallant isn’t too bad,” she noted, “he  just wants to be  something to  someone .”

“What about the Stevens?”

“Is this another interview?”

“ Conversation ,” He corrected,  briefly looking up from his work, “It isn’t as if we can talk about the weather… and I value your opinion .”

She smiled and placed her notebook to the side.

“Andre…” she mused, looking off to the side as she thought, “He’s a wounded animal.  Stu and I clicked and we only knew one another for a week at best, but anyone with eyes could see they cared  deeply for the other . Besides Timothy and Emily, they were the people I considered myself close to.”

“And Dinah?”

Em’s answer was quick.

“Would do anything for her son, but after the incident we don’t talk much anymore. Andre needs her and considers everyone else an enemy in some shape or form.”

“The incident?”

Her voice was  surprisingly matter-of-fact. There was no sign of distress or shame. She was reading from a history book that resided in her own mind.

“Venable fed us a person,” the brunette explained, “of that, there is no doubt. Timothy still has the finger to prove it.  Just a bone, but I know a human finger when I see one.”

“Who was it? They said Stu  was contaminated .”

Em read him like a book.

“Why do you ask when you  already know the answer?”

Langdon ignored her question, only offering a shrug as he continued to work. “How did that make you feel?”

“Different.”

“ Different ?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped the subject, grabbing a file from his desk and slowly walking over to her as he read it. So, this was just a conversation. The blond would be much more attentive if it were an interview, more calculating.

Stopping at her shoulder, he sat on the arm of the sofa. Em stiffened as his hand  absentmindedly grabbed her own as he continued to read. The file was rather thick — too thick to be a file on one of the residents. Unless he had one that contained the contents of Coco’s twitter page. From what she could see there were no pictures, ruling out that theory  entirely .

With a frown he set the file on the back of the chair, pulling her hand into his lap and playing with her fingers as he stared into the fire . They trailed over her palms as if the lines across it were a map to whatever he was searching for. Her neck felt hot, red splotches rising up it and onto her cheeks.

“…and I already know your opinions about the other four,” he mused, more a mutter than a statement, “Evie?”

He sensed the look she gave him without turning his head. “Right.”

“Then again I’m biased,” she noted, pulling her hand away before her palms could start sweating. Langdon seemed to realize what he had been doing and  quickly straightened. Standing off to the side, he straightened his jacket and returned to his desk.

The blond’s questions brought up introspection on her own end, insecurities and worries rising to the surface . There was an argument to  be made about projection. When she looked at Emily and Timothy, she saw people who were like her, like all the friends she left behind.  If the pair survived then somehow Em’s friends survived — the ones who worked hard and deserved so much better .

Langdon was watching her. Blue eyes narrowed in on the absent void in her eyes he had seen in the hallway before.

“You look tired,” he noted, pulling her from her thoughts, “trouble sleeping?”

“No,” Em admitted, returning from her trance and sitting up on the couch before she fell asleep. The room was so warm. “I sleep fine…  just wake up heavy.”

“Heavy?”

“Like my limbs are made of led,” she explains before waving a dismissive hand, “I just tampered off the last of my medication so it’s probably just withdrawal. Would certainly explain the weird dreams I’ve been having.”

This caught his attention, “What sort of dreams?”

“You  really sound like your interviewing me,” she noted.

He smirked, sitting on his desk, “ye of little faith.”

“Now it sounds like an interrogation. We seem to talk about the same things over and over.”

“There’s little to talk about,” he reminded with a chuckle, “remember?”

She  merely shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he prompted, waiting for her to answer his question.

“My mind is what I hold most dear.”

“Some think the mind dies with the body.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I’ve learned threats don’t work on you.”

Em rolled her eyes, much to his amusement, “you can be one of the most  annoying people… and  I’ve spent the last  year  with  Coco and  Gallant .”

“You’re  hedging .” Langdon sang, laughing as she held up her hands in defeat. Biting her lip, she tried to stay annoyed. The second she saw his grin, her own began pulling at her lips. He  just stared at her. He could have stared at her for hours.

The smile  eventually faded as she sighed, relenting to his demands. “I dreamed I  was burned alive, but I wasn’t myself… I was someone else. Couldn’t tell you who.”

Langdon stiffened, but only for a moment.

“Do you often have dreams like that?”

“My dreams have always been weird,” She admitted, “side effect of an overactive imagination .”

He nodded and took a seat back in his chair, flipping his laptop back on and waiting for the screen to load.  “I imagine confinement in the after-effects of the nuclear apocalypse does little to help .”

Em was quick to change the conversation. Her dreams were something she both took pride in and felt embarrassment from.  They inspired her stories, but also made for awkward conversation when anyone asked for the source of said inspiration .

“What are you working on?” The brunette asked.

“Classified,” he replied on instinct, tone telling her something had popped up which required his focus .  However , he had made a promise.

“Langdon. ”

He looked up and sighed, eyes flickering to her before returning their attention on the task at hand. “My job doesn’t end once the selections  are completed .  I have to arrange transportation back to the Sanctuary as well as keep tabs on operations on the inside which have taken place in my absence .”

“Sounds like you’re an important person?”

The man smirked at that, “you think they’d let just anyone decide the fate of residents?”

“You know what  I think .”

“That I do.”

They lapsed into silence once more. One minute passed… two… twenty. She went back to writing in her notebook and Langdon went back to typing away at his computer.

He would  occasionally reference back to files, one hand keeping his place while his other typed . His movements were a soothing white noise that helped her think upon her notes.

Langdon had been right. Em would never  fully trust him until she got into the Sanctuary. When that time came, she’d then have to prove her own honesty.

Her morality refused to let her friends die,  however . No matter what oath she made. Loopholes… she had to find loopholes. Em couldn’t  tell them what she learned  or  about her deal. Atop all that, she had to give Langdon a wide berth to work.

She didn’t  necessarily have to  tell them anything. Not if she manipulated them, pushed them in the right direction. It wouldn’t  compromise Langdon’s mission. It wasn’t as if she was getting them into the Sanctuary by giving them all the answers. She was  just pushing them to find the truth. Timothy and Emily were  already on the right path, after all.

Em hoped they found something of weight in the man’s room. Then she could assess the situation  properly .

Langdon flipped through his files, trying to find a specific one. Not  outwardly marking them was a pain in the ass, but it was a needed secrecy. Something caught his eye and he stopped, flipping back a few pages and looking up at his companion.

“Happy  belated birthday,” He said. Em’s nose scrunched in confusion as she looked up from her book. For a moment she seemed to be doing the math in her head. “You were born an exact week before Halloween.”

“When’s Halloween?”

“In two days.”

She hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t as if there was anything to look forward to. If she was being honest, she had forgotten what day it was. The hours seemed to blend together the longer she stayed in the outpost.

“Halloween was the theme of many birthday parties,” she said with a smile, trying not to look too disappointed, “explains a lot, if I’m being honest .”

“Such as?”

“Fascination with the macabre and occultism,” she admitted, “all those… weird things.”

“I don’t find it weird at all,” he reassured, “how old are you now?”

“23.” She said, the pair lapsing into silence before she spoke again, “when is your birthday?”

“March fifth,” he answered.

She bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling as she thought before letting out a frustrated sigh. “I was going to try and guess your zodiac. That’s how people flirt, isn’t it?”

“It was also the trademark of the Zodiac killer.”

“Well… shit.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking as he wandered back towards the couch.

“Pisces,” he said, plopping down opposite of her.

“That means you’re… that’s the fish one, right?”

His cheeks hurt, “you’re terrible at this.”

“I don’t exactly have the Sunday paper to reference.”

“Are you trying to tell my future now?”

She rolled her eyes and swatted him with her book. He watched red crawl up her neck and to her cheeks as he continued to chuckle at her antics.

“Okay, fine,” Em relented, “another topic then — what do you miss most about the old world?”

“You’re filled with questions today,” he noted, trying to hide his amusement but unable to rid the smile that took up his entire face .

“I’m  tired of having one-sided conversations,” the brunette corrected. She tried to look stern, but failed  miserably . “Believe it or not I don’t  actually like talking about myself as much as I have.”

Langdon rose an incredulous brow, “ oh ?”

“Okay,” she admitted, “ maybe a  little, but who doesn’t?”

He laughed and she smiled. God, it had been so long since he had laughed.

“What do  you miss?” the blond countered, chuckling as she sent him a scathing look.

“Did you not hear a word I  just said?”

Rolling his eyes with as much dramatics as he could muster, he finally gave her an answer.

“There are many things I miss about the old world, but things must  be sacrificed for the new one.”

“I’ll hit you. I  really will.” She snipped, “that’s  not an answer.”

Em knew with one look that he was doing this on purpose. His smile was shit-eating and smug. The game of cat and mouse continuing.

“Yes, it is.”

“For a  politician ,  maybe .” She said, staring at him  silently until he gave her the answer she wanted. He had to think long and hard. Langdon hadn’t lied — he missed a great deal of things. But what did he miss the most?

“The freedom,” he decided with a nod of his head before gesturing to the rest of the room, “dress these places up as much as you want, but they’re still cages .”

“And the sanctuary is different?”

“No,” he admits, “but it’s  certainly larger.”

“By how much?”

All he gave her was a smirk, “you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Will I?”

He  just stared at her and she stared in return. Both of them were trying to read something from the other as if there was some sign that they were telling the truth.

Em didn’t know what to feel. There was a fascination she felt when she looked at him. When she spoke, she felt a familiarity, their conversations were so easy and natural.  She would see the twitch of his lips as he read or the way he crossed his legs and it felt like she sat there a hundred times before . Part of her wanted to see it a hundred times more.

Landon’s brows furrowed and sat up a bit.

“You’re crying,” he noted.

Confused, Em placed a hand on her cheek. When she pulled back it was wet. Her brows furrowed as well. Why was she crying?

“Odd,” she muttered, “allergies,  possibly .”

“There’s nothing living here.”

“There’s dust,” Em noted, chuckling a bit, “lots of it.”

They weren’t stopping, her eyes watering over and over again. Langdon found himself reaching forward to wipe them away. Why did he have to get so close to her? She’d bump noses with him if she leaned towards him even half an inch.

“I have a few more interviews to conduct,” He noted, pulling away  quickly and rising to his feet, “ I hope to speak with you soon .”

“Yeah,” she noted, swiping at her eyes and grabbing her notebook, “same time tomorrow?”

He smiled and shook his head, “would I be able to stop you?”

“ Probably not.”

Carefully closing the door behind her, Em both ways before making her way back to her room. God, the tears weren’t stopping. It was more annoying than anything. She could hardly see.

Turning the corner, a force slammed into her shoulder. The brunette stumbled back  slightly before hands centered her once more.

“Hey,” the familiar voice of Emily chuckled. Then she noticed her tears, “What’s wrong?”

“Allergies,” Em said, scrunching her nose and fanning at her face, “ god , they haven’t been this bad in  years .  I feel like I’m chopping a fucking  onion .”

Emily could only laugh, stepping back and pulling out a handkerchief.  Carefully she dabbed at her friend's eyes. “Here.”

“Ugh,” Em groaned,  gently taking the piece of fabric from her friend’s hand, “ maybe it’s a hair. Can you see anything?”

Em turned her head up and did her best to keep her eyes open. Emily shook her head.

“Nothing.”

With a sigh, Em went back to dabbing the tears away and started to move down the hall, “ maybe it’s a stray hair. I’ll meet with you and Timothy later, okay? Need to get whatever it is out of my eye.”

Emily could only step back and let her friend pass.

“We’ll be in the library!” She called after Em. The only sign the woman heard her being a thumbs up thrown up above her head before she turned another corner.

There was something going on with that girl. Emily could feel it in her gut. She  just didn’t know  what .

* * *

“What did you find?” Emily asked her as soon as she entered the library,  barely giving the brunette enough time to take a seat.

Em looked around the room, ensuring the three musketeers were the only people in the room. Timothy leaned on the other side of the table. Emily was pacing behind him as always.

“Nothing,” she said, her heart twisting as she  blatantly lied.

Timothy scratched at his head, cheeks puffing out before she let out a long breath. He glanced at Emily who paused her pacing, lips pursed as she held back her disappointment.

“ Nothing ?” She echoed.

“He’s like a shadow,” Em said, turning sideways in her chair to face them  properly , “always lurking somewhere. Was  barely in there ten minutes before he showed up.”

Dragging his hands down his face, Timothy punched his brow and flexed his jaw. God, he was not made for this kind of work. He wanted to be an  engineer , not a  spy .

“We should stop while we’re ahead,” he said, glancing between the two women.

Emily gave him a look somewhere between shock and anger. “Don’t you want to know the  truth ?”

“He could  kill us for this,” Timothy hissed, “leave us for the cannibals. Don’t you remember what he  said ?”

His girlfriend rolled her eyes, “I have  ears , Timothy.”

The man shook his head, tapping his knuckles against the table and avoiding her gaze. Em watched their interaction. She wasn’t about to get in the middle of a lover’s spat.

“Is the truth  really worth it?”

Emily’s response was immediate, “ Always !”

Timothy sighed, “look, why don’t we wait till  after the selections to find the truth. That way we don’t  die .”

“And be trapped in another cage?"

“He has a point,” Em noted, the ebony-haired woman turning on her heels to face her. Emily felt betrayed, face contorting with anger.

“If you two want to  die in your  ignorance so be it!” she hissed before storming out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Timothy was staring at the floor, hand going up to scratch at his head and then rub at his neck. It didn’t take a genius to see he  was conflicted .

“She’ll cool off,” Em reassured.

“I know.”

“She has a point.”

He turned to look at her in disbelief, “I thought you—”

“You  both have points.  Good points.”

“But which one is  best —  being screwed over  now or  later ?”

Em shrugged, “depends.”

“On  what ?”

She sighed, taking a moment to articulate her thoughts, “I can’t answer that for you… you have to fill in the blanks yourself .”

Timothy could only nod. Such seemed to be the consensus. If only the waters weren’t so murky.

“What did y’all find?” Em finally asked.

“Venable has been making her own rules,” Timothy noted, “… abstinence and all that.”

“And  that’s what Langdon’s focused on?”

“He has a laptop,” Timothy explained, “There were lots of emails between himself and the Cooperative . Emily thinks he has a satellite hook-up or something.”

“What kind of emails?”

Timothy shrugged, “general updates. Last outpost had  extremely depleted resources, surrogate tests were failing, status updates…”

“…  and ?” Em pressed, knowing there was more.

“He plans to execute Gallant and Venable,” Timothy said. His eyes flickered as if he were reading the email to her. “there are two promising candidates so far that he’s considering taking to the Sanctuary.”

Em let out a breath of relief. So, Langdon  had been listening to her. She nodded for a moment, thoughts spinning.

“Go to Emily,” she said.

“What?”

“Apologize,” she says, rising from her seat and starting towards the door, “you have to work together to find out more .”

Timothy gaped for a second, pushing off the table as he watched her leave.

“What about you?” he finally spoke.

“I’m the distraction, remember?”

The boy could only stand there as the door closed behind her; brows furrowed. God, why did she always have to be so…  cryptic ? Scratching at the back of his head, Timothy paced back and forth for a moment.

The creaking of the door caught his attention once more. Freezing mid-step, he rose his gaze to stare at the new arrival. Emily was peeking her head in, looking for any sign of Em before walking back inside.

“What did she say?”

Timothy let his hand drop to her side, “That we need to work together.”

“Did you tell her about the emails?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing,” Timothy replied, “but she’s always examined our findings before saying a word… even to us.”

Emily sighed, reaching out for his hands which he  carefully placed in her own. She stared at them as her fingers smoothed over his knuckles and traced circles on the back of his hands.

“She’s hiding something,” she said, biting her lips and eyes welling with concern, “Langdon must have done something to her .”

“Or  maybe she didn’t find anything,” Timothy reminded, “She’s honest to a fault… a  really ,  really big fault.”

A small smile graced Emily’s lips. It was  quickly gone, replaced by an expression of determination. Finally, she looked up at him.

“We need to investigate on our own.”

Timothy opened his mouth, but she  quickly cut him off, “ without Em. He can’t silence  all of us.”

* * *

“ Who deserves a shot at  salvation ?” Langdon’s questioned, voice booming across the room as he strode to his desk with a bounce in his step. Venable stood by the fire, back straight and lips pressed into a thin line. The woman was like a statue. Then again, the Greys had come to call her the ‘ iron woman’ for a reason. Even iron rusted.

He eyed his files, hands hovering over the names of Purples. He knew exactly how Venable viewed them, the rage she felt at their presence.

“Let’s start with… Coco St. Pierre Vanderbuilt.”

Settling in his chair, Langdon placed a hand on either side of the desk, keeping his posture open. Body language was a key part of communication. It  was processed so  subconsciously one didn’t know they were telling a story with their whole bodies. He needed Venable to feel like she was in charge. Give her the power and then yank it out from under her feet.

Venable scoffed before her eyes narrowed on him, “The Vanderbuilt girl is a  vacuous abomination of inbreeding . She’d be my  last choice to propagate the human race.”

Langdon  simply stared at her and she continued on with her rambling.  Each insult pulling her spine straighter and straighter, giving her a pathetic illusion of power .

“The hairdresser is a cowardly homosexual. His grandmother is a festering pustule who just will… not… die.” She ranted, eyes alighting with a fire of superiority and a satisfied smirk crawling onto her face. Recognizing her own hubris, she pulled back and tapped her cane quietly. “And the talk show host…”

The woman balked at that one, glancing at her feet as she searched for something to say.

“Well, actually,” she admitted, “I don’t know that much about that one.”

“And Emily?”

When he looked upon Wilhemina Venable he did not see a leader. He didn’t even see a person. All he could see was the woman who had tried to hit Em, the fear in her eyes when the brunette refused to cower. Langdon had no pity for those who abuse their power.

“I’m surprised we haven’t run out of oxygen with all her preaching,” Venable scoffed, “She’s an ungrateful brat that’s never satisfied . A mangy mutt that thinks she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Langdon showed no reaction to her words. His face was an iron mask that, unlike Venable, he knew how to regulate.

“Mutts can still bite.”

The woman chuckled,  clearly amused, “all she knows how to do is bark. She lacks the backbone needed to carry out anything of substance.”

Langdon offered a mocking smile that Venable  quickly mistook for validation. Her eyes glimmered with the satisfaction of a queen on her throne.

“At this rate, you and I will have the Sanctuary all to ourselves.” He noted. The woman made no move to react or acknowledge his statement.

“Come,” he sighed, rising from his desk once more and rounding it to stand at her side, “There’s no need for us to be  adversaries , Ms. Venable .”

The woman seemed to consider his proposition, chin rising ever  slightly to look into his eyes. They were so blue it was easy to see why many residents  were mesmerized by them. There was an… attraction to the man, a magnetic quality.  Perhaps a man she could tolerate. A man Venable could use to get out of this hell hole to rise to a position more suitable to her skills.

Langdon allowed her to stare for a long moment. He stood close to the woman, but not close enough. She would have to make the move… at which point he would land the final blow.

“Take off your dress,” he ordered, tone and words off enough to make Venable falter.  Her eyes widened in surprise as she processed his request, but made no move to put distance between herself and Langdon .

“I will  not ,” she gaped, incredulous and chuckling as if he were telling her a horrible joke.

Langdon’s face remained as it was.

“Part of your  cooperation includes a physical examination,” he reminded.

Venable, like Em, knew exactly what a physical examination required. She kept her eyes on the man, refusing to give him any more ground than he had already conquered. “You can read my  file .”

The blond’s head quirked to the side as he assessed the woman before him, “Your  file won’t show me what I need to see… your  shame .”

Venable’s confident smirk disappeared and his own  quickly formed. It was as if he was sucking the power from her and fueling himself.  Slowly , he began to circle with his hands behind his back, a vulture around a wounded and  slowly dying animal.

“I want to see that part of you that  humiliates you the most.”

His hand trailed up her arm and over her shoulder where it came to rest by her neck, touch light as a feather. Her hand sank into his like a claw before it could reach the zipper  just a breath away from his fingers. He placed another hand on her other shoulder, caging her in place and leaning in so his breath fanned her ear.

“You  won’t get a second chance.”

Venable’s breath made her chest rise and fall, panic rising from her belly and into her chest. She stared at the ground, weighing her options before she finally retracted her claws.

Langdon’s hand trailed to her back,  slowly pulling down the zipper of her dress to reveal a twisted spine, the flesh around it a deep bruised purple .

“Does it hurt?” he asked, hands trailing down her spine.

Venable spoke with all the conviction she could muster. She focused her eyes on the wall and willed her tears to return back into her eyes, “ no .”

She felt his face come closer to her cheek, voiced hushed as he spoke, “Does it bring you great pain.”

It took Venable a moment to gather the breath to even  formulate a response, shoulders shuttering . A single tear fell down her cheek, the shame too much to bear.”

“ Yes .”

Slowly , she turned her head towards him. His nose was almost close enough to brush her own and she tilted her head as if she hoped he’d kiss her.

“Is this part of my test?” the red-haired woman asked, eyes staring into his with a vulnerability she hadn’t show in years.

He shook his head, moving  slightly towards her, “isn’t everything?”

“So then,” she said, eyes flickering to his lips, “Do I pass?”

Langdon leaned forward, her eyes closing in expectation as his nose brushed her own. His breath and the expectation of his lips made her heart hammer in her chest.

Then it was gone, a wicked smile forming before her eyes on the man. She felt the humiliation before he had even said a word. More tears trailed down her cheeks.

Revenge  certainly was sweet.

“No.”

* * *

Em sat in the salon, Coco on the couch opposite her. The blond  was posed , resting her elbow atop the back of the chair and her head upon her dangling hand. It was an Instagram-worthy pose. One Em  was supposed to be capturing… instead, she was drawing Langdon from memory. She was  merely using Coco as a reference to draw the couch he  was leaned back on, legs crossed and eyes on his file.

“Are you almost  done ?” Coco snipped, “my elbow is cramping.

To her credit, she  had drawn Coco. She  just hadn’t  told the woman she had finished.

“Do you want it done right?” Em asked. There was no hard in torturing the woman  just a  little longer. For once the salon was quiet. Coco was deep in thought about something, a rare occurence.

“My family  was supposed to be here,” Coco said, breaking the brief respite with her quiet words, “My dad purchased the tickets .

Em glanced up at her before her eyes returned to her drawing. She was unsure of what Coco wanted from her. “So you've said.”

Green eyes flickered back to the blonde as she shifted  uncomfortably . Halting in her ministrations, Em watched her for a moment.  It was like a sudden ripple in the water, something either falling below or coming towards the surface .

Coco’s eyes flickered to the fire.  She remembered being a tiny tot having lavish bonfires with her family in flannel shirts that cost more than a small New York apartment .  Her little brother would be such a menace, chasing her around with dirt-covered hands or a worm dangling off a stick . She’d scream but always found herself laughing when he’d toss it at her. He always had the worst aim. Their father had to bribe the high-school baseball team into letting the boy play.

The woman turned in her seat, Em closing her sketchbook to give Coco her attention. The blonde sunk in her seat.  Her lips twisted and eyes focusing on the empty spot in front of her, furrowed brows darkening her expression .

Finally, she looked to Em, scooting towards her and crossing her legs on the couch. “You’re one of those…  smart people, right? Do you think they suffered?”

“I—” Em  was blindsided by the question, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

Coco was quick to press the subject, “They were in Hong Kong — right by the first blast.”

The woman’s eyes were so desperate Em couldn’t even  formulate a thought. What was she supposed to say? What was the truth? Was it better to tell her a lie or the harsh reality?

“Coco, I—”

“ Did they?”

Jaw tensing, Em took in her eyes welling with unshed tears and her hands which  tightly gripped at her arm. This wasn’t something the woman  wanted , but something she  needed . They were all facing death and with it their own guilt and regrets.

“They would have been… incinerated in a matter of seconds,” she found herself saying. Em's voice was slow and even in an attempt to keep it from trembling. Her hands reached to squeeze Coco’s as if her touch was a soothing balm to the wounds they were reopening. “If they did feel any pain it would have been like a paper cut— sharp and then… nothing.”

Coco nodded, chest rising and falling as she tried to keep panic from rising. Trembling lips formed an uneven smile as she looked up at Em. The action shocked the brunette. It was a part of Coco she had never seen, a part of Coco she empathized with.

“Thank you,” Coco whispered, squeezing the other woman’s hands. Em was too shocked to move.  She was still processing the situation, her own words and the meaning behind them, the weight they held .

Coco fanned at her eyes, tilting her head back.

“Oh,” she whined, “I can’t  cry … I only brought enough eyeliner to last me a  year . Mallory!”

She was gone before Em could even realize. The brunette’s brows  were furrowed as she stared at the floor, confused and… sad — so,  so sad. The kind of sadness that hit you like a punch to the gut, strong enough to make you double over.

Her own breath became labored as the voices once again welled in her head.  They screamed and begged for life,  just one more moment to apologize for their wrongs… to make right arguments that turned into their last words . A million hands gripped on to her, dragging her into the black and gaping void. She could feel their fingers digging into her skin, bruises rising to the surface.

Em jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, squeezing it and pulling her out of the river Styx. She wiped her face of tears and turned to the man she hadn’t even heard approaching.

Langdon was  blatantly concerned, kneeling beside her and holding her hands. It centered her somewhat, kept her from drowning.

“Why do you cry?” He asked, voice quiet and gentle.

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a shake of her head.  Suddenly , she stood, Langdon mirroring her actions. Green eyes looked everywhere but at him and her hands slipped from his grip. “Excuse me.”

His hand shot out; grip strong enough to stop her from turning away. It loosened, and he let his hand drop to his side as he willed her to look at him.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yet  I feel guilty all the same.”

Langdon shook his head and took a step towards her, hand hovering over her back as his body curled around her front. “You couldn’t have saved them.”

Em’s hands curled into fists at her side. She remembered her brother, her nieces, her nephews — all too young to die. Taking a step away from him, she finally spoke. “I could have made sure they didn’t die alone.”

Langdon loosened his grip, allowed her to walk away. His eyes didn’t leave her as she left the room, palms swiping at her cheeks as she made her way down the hall.

That was the difference between them — Venable and Em. The former played at caring but used it as a weapon. The red-haired woman was a Puritan preacher, rising the heat on who she perceived as sinners. She didn’t  really care about what she preached. It only served to keep those around her in line.

Em,  however … Em  cared . She cared even when she didn’t want to, when she wanted to  be annoyed . Satan did not hate the humans  just because they were mortal, flawed. Lucifer was once an angel, after all. An angel dedicated to justice against the sinners.

* * *

The salon was a place none of them could stay away from for long. It was like the living room of your house, a place you always wandered to when you didn’t know what to do.

Em didn’t like looking weak. She had already cried in front of Langdon more times than she had cried in front of her own mother.  Perhaps it meant she was comfortable with him. The thought of anyone seeing her with snot running out of her nose and eyes puffy and red was still humiliating.

Much to her surprise, Gallant was in the salon.  His eyes were dead as he stared into the distance, his usual shades missing to reveal the face of a man who had lost everything .

She had heard about what happened, the torture brought to him by his own grandmother’s hands. Coco wasn’t exactly good at keeping things quiet.

“I don’t want to talk,” Gallant grumbled, sensing her presence.

“I didn’t come to talk.”

Gallant turned to look at her over the back of the couch. He had expected Coco. Somehow this was even worse. The hairdresser wanted to hate her, but he knew it was Langdon he was  really angry at.

“Here to gloat?” he asked, slumping back into his seat and picking up a glass which had fallen to the side. He picked it up, closed one eye to stare at the bottom, and then downed the rest of the water.

“You aren’t the best man in the world, but you  certainly aren’t the worst,” Em said as she took a seat opposite him. She left a cushion length between him and herself. “But there’s no sin in that.”

Gallant glowered at her and scoffed, “great pep-talk. You and Dinah should be co-hosts.”

Em watched as he stared at his glass once more and frowned, letting his hand drop to his side once more. Gallant may be pouting like a child, but it wasn’t without reason.

“Do you want some water?” she asked and he  numbly nodded his head. She rose from her seat and brought over the pitcher, sitting closer to him to take the glass from his hands. The man was  nearly catatonic like a sad drunk. With a sigh, she placed the pitcher on the coffee table and the glass back in his hands.

“You’re not disgusting Gallant,” She assured, squeezing his hands around the glass, “a bit arrogant,  perhaps , but not disgusting .”

After a moment she pulled away. “And it’s okay to mourn what could have been.”

The man stayed silent, sparing a few fleeting glances in her direction. He reminded her of a lost puppy. A petulant one — the kind that would tear up your shoes and your house until you came home. Somehow, they were endearing despite the annoyance they brought.

Gallant sat still for a moment before leaning on her shoulder. Tears began to flow  freely from his eyes and he curled into her like a lost child.  Slowly , her arms curled around him and she held him to her chest.

“Welcome to the shitty family club,” She jested once he had finally calmed himself down.  The man shook his head and chuckled through tears, using the corner of his dress shirt to clear away his tears and snot .

“You tell anyone and I’ll kill you,” he said, a smile forming on Em despite her previous feelings towards the man. She half expected him to run off as Coco had, use her for the therapy and then go back to his day.

“Twenty questions?” he asked, grabbing the pitcher and pouring himself and Em a glass. He held it out  expectantly and she  slowly took it from his hands.

“With no drinks?”

“Don’t remind me.”


	12. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell y'all how long I've been waiting for this chapter. I can't wait to hear what your reactions are to it.  
> As always, thank you for your comments and the like. They always make my day and I can't thank you enough for them.  
> Now -- onto the chapter!

Langdon liked to wander the halls at night. Around three in the morning, there was be nothing but silence. Even the Greys and Miss Venable were retired to their rooms. It was the only time he had to think without interruption.

Things were falling into place. He’d be free of the place by Halloween if everything went according to plan.

The shipment of apples would arrive in the morning and the blond had riled up Venable enough to push her over the edge. She was self-involved and short-sighted enough to commit mass murder. If not, he always had alternate plans in place.

Gallant had killed his grandmother just hours earlier. An illusion was all it took to get the man where Langdon wanted him. The body had been easy to get rid of, the crime easy to conceal. It _had_ been a heart attack, technically. Just wasn’t the _textbook_ definition.

All that could be heard in the hall was the faint, crisp crackle of fire and footsteps echoing off the walls. In these moments it was easy to remember they were at the end of the world. Five billion eight hundred and eight million people were dead. 120 million were either underground or slowly dying from radiation.

The feeling it gave him was almost poetic. He was inevitable. It was _him_ that brought this into place… _him_ and _his_ army.

Silence was pierced by the sounds of pain-filled moans. Without the smothering silence, Langdon might not have even heard it. Brows furrowing, he started towards the sound. It was muffled… probably behind a door or in another hall. The sounds of his own footsteps drowned out the sound, forcing him to stop every few feet to reassess his position in relation to the cries.

Eventually, the sound grew loud enough for him to locate. Whimpers came from the other side as he placed his hand upon the knob. It stopped mid-turn, locked.

Glancing down the hall both ways and finding nothing but shadows, Langdon waved a hand. The lock clicked out of place and the door swung open. With one last glance around his surroundings, he slipped inside.

The faint light from the outside did not rouse its resident, brows furrowing in sleep and limbs moving about restlessly. The sheets had been thrown off the woman, a pillow leaning against the bed frame after being shoved to the side.

“No,” she muttered and groaned, feet kicking away the sheets until they slumped to the ground, “no.”

With careful steps, Langdon made it to the woman’s side. Kneeling next to the bed, he smoothed brown hair away from a pale and sweaty brow. Fingers traced her cheek after moving the hair behind her ear before moving back to her forehead.

He smoothed the skin between her brows, thumb running down her nose and up again as he muttered in a foreign tongue. “ _Do eat pacem — Da santificatio._ ”

Em’s face relaxed and she looked almost peaceful.

“Why?” she whispered in her sleep, voice lacking the distress from before.

Langdon smiled sadly at the woman, gently trailing his thumb over her cheek despite the spell being completed.

“Guilt is a powerful thing,” he whispered, “and you are prone to bending under its weight.”

“What are you doing?”

Startled, Langdon quickly turned and rose to his feet. The second action was deliberately slow. He couldn’t look human to these people. It would ruin everything he had been working for.

Emily stood in the doorway, eyes wide and candelabra in one hand. The other was on the door frame, ready to push herself away and flee down the hall. Her eyes flickered between her friend and the man who had been looming over her.

Carefully and with control, the blond placed his hands behind his back.

“Same as you.”

He took a step towards the ebony-haired woman. She was in her nightdress, hair no longer held back and curls bouncing out and frizzing around her head. Emily didn’t move, she was too stubborn to, but she curled in on herself like a cornered wolf raising its hackles.

“Go back to bed.”

Emily found his words like honey, his breath a fog. She relaxed despite her alarm, shoulders releasing their tenseness and hand coming to fall to her side.

“You saw nothing.”

Brown eyes glazed over, Emily turned on her heel and started back the way she came. Her movements were like those of a toy soldier, stiff and unnatural. To an outsider's view, she was simply sleepwalking.

Langdon had overstayed his welcome. He’d let his guard down. If the woman had spoken any louder, his position would have been compromised.

Em sighed, turning in her sleep. The blond turned towards her, a small sliver of golden-orange light dancing across her face. With a small smile, he regarded her for a second. A hand reached out to her, resting on the bed frame for but a moment.

Then, he retreated into the hall, straightening his clothes as the door closed behind him, lock clicking into place.

Everything was going as planned.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A blood-curdling scream woke Em. Chest heaving as she shot up in bed, it took her a second to realize the sound was from somewhere in the outpost and not inside her own head. The second scream threw her to her feet, blindly stumbling to the door and throwing it open.

“No!” a scream came again, “ _No_! Please! Venable’s crazy!”

“Get off her!” a male’s voice shouted.

“Emily,” Em gasped, breath shuttering as she could only stand frozen as her body attempted to catch up with her mind. Forcing herself from the spell of fear, she dashed down the hall. All she could hear was the screaming and the sound of blood in her ears, the thudding of her bare feet on cold tile accompanying it like a steady drum.

Approaching one of the many balconies, Em nearly toppled over the side. Her hands shot out to grab the iron railing as she curled over the bar, green eyes frantically searching the ground below. All she caught was the tail end of a dark black dress.

Gritting her teeth, Em turned her head this way and that. What way would get her there quicker? Letting out a cry of frustration, she pushed herself down a hallway. She was wasting time trying to find the best course. Action had to be taken _now_.

Finally, after stumbling around corners and nearly running into walls, Em caught up to them. She stopped for a moment at the end of the hall, chest heaving as she panted.

What now? _What now_?

Surprise. Em still had the element of surprise.

Their red-haired prison master was closest to Em, bringing up the end of the terror-filled parade. Timothy and Emily were a good ten feet in front of the woman, thrashing against the iron grip of The Fist and another Warden. A few more figures in black were ahead of them, no doubt to prepare the execution.

Em needed to make chaos. It was the only thing that would give them all a fighting chance.

A growl forming in her throat, Em stalked towards Venable like a cat would a bird. By the time her presence was noted in the hall, it was far too late. The red-haired woman was blinded by her own superiority, relishing in the pain she was causing… the _power_ this single moment would give her. The idea of her own vulnerability wasn’t even something that crossed her mind.

Venable’s eyes widened as her cane was quickly pulled out of her grip, stumbling to the side. By the time she processed what was happening, the world had spun around her and left her staring at the ceiling. Her spine cried in protest, pain rippling up from her tail-bone.

Em had used the woman’s cane to swipe Venable’s feet right out from under her like a baseball bat. As she followed through on the strike, she brought her other hand to hold the other side of the cane. Using the cane like a battering ram, Em delivered a blow to the woman’s face.

The crack of the blow and the cry that came from Venable’s lips was satisfaction in and of itself, but Em wasn’t there for revenge.

Erika, renowned in the outpost as _The Fist…_ Venable’s undefeated warrior hardly had a moment to recognize the danger behind her. The brunette kicked at the back of her legs, forcing them to cave in on themselves. The Fist fell, their grip on Emily loosened enough for the ebony-haired woman to break free.

“Run!” Em ordered her friend, quickly blocking a strike The Fist aimed at her legs. She could feel the bruise the blow would leave already forming on her arm. With a cry, she whacked the woman in the head with her new makeshift weapon. The Fist fell back, dazed.

The other Warden let go of Timothy and started towards Em. He thought coming at her from behind would give him an advantage, but the brunette spun on her heel to face him. A swift and hard kick was delivered to his gut. He groaned, but pressed forward and threw out a fist.

Hissing, Em blocked the punch with the cane but left her other side open. The Fist grabbed her hair and Em let out a cry, dropping the cane as her hands instinctively went to her head.

“Stand down,” The Fist ordered holding Em at arm's length. She was _trying_ to give Em an out. She didn’t _want_ to hurt her.

The brunette only snarled, “Never.”

Em’s nails dug into The Fist’s hand atop her head. Her fingers were like talons, holding it in place as she threw herself downward, taking the woman with her. The Fist’s grip remained tight around Em’s hair the brunette kicked outward, landing a blow to the warden’s groin.

The Fist doubled over and Em freed herself, spinning on the other warden who was rushing her on the right. He took the low, moving to tackle her to the ground. She took the high, aiming a blow at his head with her elbow. The second it met his temple, he crumpled to the floor into a heap of limbs.

Her other opponent rose back to her feet, stepping over the unconscious body of her coworker. The Fist grabbed Em from behind, easily lifting her off the ground and pinning her arms to the side.

Em threw herself forward and bit down hard on the woman’s hand, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. The Fist cried out and Em fell to the ground with a painful thud.

With barely a moment to react, The Fist’s foot came to stomp down on her. The sight filled Em’s vision like an eclipse over the sun. At the last second Em rolled to the side and up to her knees, feeling the impact of steel-toed boots rumble through the floor like an earthquake.

Another punch swung at her head and Em grabbed onto it. She shoving The Fist's arm under her elbow and used it to bring her closer to her opponent.

The Fist grunted as Em’s elbow dug into her ribs, using it to propel herself away from the warden. Stumbling into the wall, Em steadied herself. With a swipe of her fist, she smeared the blood from her mouth across her face.

Langdon was right. Anger was _exactly_ what she needed to win. It _burned_ in her veins, thirsted for the feeling of the fight as if Em was born for the battlefield.

Em’s position against the wall left her open, The Fist going in for a punch to the woman’s gut. A hand on Em’s shoulder held her to the wall. Em’s knees curled into her chest as Erika delivered a single punch, putting her whole body behind the blow. The air was knocked out of Em’s lungs and she groaned, stumbling forward as the hand that held her up suddenly disappeared.

The last thing Em felt was a blow to her head. Then, darkness. She was out before she hit the floor. Her body lay not even ten feet from the warden she had taken down, curled in on itself, defeated.

Erika straightened and looked to her boss. Venable had risen to her feet, limping over to her discarded cane. As soon as it was in her hands, she settled back into the air of control she strove for. With a few controlled breaths and a tap of her cane, it was as if she hadn’t been attacked in the first place.

During the commotion, other Wardens had gotten the prisoners to the end of the hall. Em’s fight was fruitless. Outnumbered and out cold, she never had a chance of winning. Emily and Timothy hadn’t the chance to run far until they were apprehended once more.

“What should we do with her?” The Fist asked. Part of her felt guilty, but she had no choice but to fight. Em had given her no choice.

“Leave her,” Venable ordered, sparing the unconscious woman a single disgust-filled glance, a smug smirk forming, “it’s not like she can run very far.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Em hadn’t been the only one to hear the commotion. It was impossible to escape. What felt like an eternity to the three musketeers was no more than a few minutes. Greys whispered and fled from the area, some daring to stay close enough to see what happened. Purples poked their heads out of doors.

Hearing the cries, Dinah rushed to her son, making sure he was okay before holding him to her with wide, shocked eyes.

Coco looked upon her fellow Purples with narrowed, bleary eyes. She was more annoyed at being awoken than anything else. It didn’t take long for her to return to her room, burying herself in her sheets and pulling a pillow over her ears.

Gallant’s eyes shifted between the other residents. He was more concerned with his own paranoia than the distressing sounds from somewhere below them. Like Coco, he returned to his room. He hadn’t been sleeping before and he certainly wouldn’t sleep now.

Langdon had been just about to retire for the night. He had never been one to require much sleep, a few hours at best. The blond had just shrugged off his suit jacket when he heard the commotion, throwing it back on with a sigh before starting towards the door.

A few squabbles were normal in these circumstances. He’d seen his fair share of Greys and Purples fighting amongst themselves and the fellow members of their group. Sometimes it was planned… other times a slight inconvenience.

A gunshot echoed through the compound, spurring him to quicken his pace, rushing down the steps and through the maze of halls. Weapons, by protocol, were only supposed to be used on the outside. He should have known Venable would have altered rules

The first thing he saw was a crowd of wardens gathering at the scene. Then, Em sprawled across the ground. Venable was not far off, giving orders to the wardens that rushed here and there, trying to regain control over the chaos.

Jaw clenching, he forced himself to remain calm. He slowed his pace and rested his hands behind his back, tight fists hidden from view. With careful steps, he stalked closer. It was amazing how well he could hide in plain sight. At least five wardens must have passed him without a second glance.

Sparing one final glance at Em, he focused his gaze on Venable.

His voice quickly seized control over the room, “What’s going on here?”

Shoulder’s tensing, Venable turned towards him. Her face settled in an expression of contempt. Poor woman… she truly believed she had checkmate.

“Two residents broke the rules against fornication,” The Fist answered from behind Venable after a long and silent moment. The two stared at each other with the utmost disdain. “Emily tried to intercept the execution…”

Erika spared a guilty glance to the woman no one had bothered to move from the ground. “… she was quickly subdued.”

Not bothering to look at the Warden, Langdon took a few steps forward. One more and he and Venable would be chest to chest. Everyone had frozen in their tracks, watching the lion corner his prey. He narrowed his eyes at the woman, lips pursing into a thin line.

“These are rules of which Miss Venable created in a _blatant_ abuse of power,” he spoke, staring into the woman’s eyes and leaving no room for argument. He did rank above them, after all. “Call off the execution.”

The Fist spared a glance at one of her fellow wardens. They quickly turned their head to face her, leaving as she gestured with two fingers down the hall to the execution chamber.

“She injured _two_ of my wardens,” Venable noted. She tapped her cane and let out an astonished laugh, “and the boy _shot_ another. _Surely,_ you do not intend to—”

Langdon simply brushed past her and towards the Fist. Venable was forced to turn as his shoulder pushed into her own. He paused at the side of the warden, turning his head to address her. Blue eyes sent a brief, unconcerned glance towards the red-head who stood gaping at the _audacity_ of it all.

“As of now, Miss Venable will be stripped of her power until my selections are complete.” Langdon said, “You will refer to me on any and all issues. Do I make myself clear?”

The Fist nodded, “yes, sir.”

“Now leave,” the blond said with a wave of his hand, keeping his back towards Venable. In all honestly, he felt like he may snap her neck if he looked at her for a moment longer. “Escort Venable to her room and make sure she stays there. I have more _pressing_ matters to attend.”

Venable was in shock, unable to form a single word. She stared at The Fist with an expression of confusion and amusement. Venable was in denial, chuckling as the leather-clad woman approached.

“This is _my_ outpost.” She scoffed, eying The Fist up and down in an unspoken dare, “I will _not_ be going _anywhere_.”

Langdon didn’t even turn to look at them, waving a hand for The Fist to continue. Erika’s loyalty quickly shifted, a firm hand going around the woman’s arm as she gently pulled Venable from the room. The red-haired woman knew better than to resist.

The second they cleared the room, he dropped beside Em. His hands hovered over her, unsure of what to do. Finally, he brushed back her hair and rested two fingers on her neck. A sigh of relief left him as he felt a pulse, attention going elsewhere.

The blood on her face was not hers, no tear of her lip or sign of a broken nose. A bruise formed at her arm, but it also did not seem broken. The bruising at her temple, however, worried him.

Slowly and carefully, he shifted his arms under her. One went to her back and the other her knee.

He could feel the bones of her rib cage and spine protruding from her flesh. Starvation had made Em light as a feather. Her head lolled against his chest, finally resting in the crook of his neck. A hand dangled at her side, the other draped across her stomach.

The halls were vacant as he carried her through them. Wardens had no doubt forced everyone into their rooms to prevent further disturbances, Purple and Grey alike.

Em’s door was wide open as he approached. He slipped inside and laid her gently upon the bed, propping her head up with pillows — that’s what they said to do in these moments, right? Em probably knew. Langdon could philosophize, but anything outside of that or magic was Greek to him.

He picked the covers from the floor and draped them over her, minding her bruised arm. With a wave of his hand, the candles in the corner of her room caught fire once more. Waking to a black room would no doubt make the woman panic, something she had enough of for one day.

Langdon allowed himself to take his time, using the opportunity to look about her room. Her sketchbook was placed to the side as well as a notebook that bounced between research and diary entries. Books from the library were stacked here and there. When he opened them, he found torn pieces of paper shoved into them with shorthand notes, some even written in the margins. Finally, he saw what she had been doing all this time.

His brow furrowed as the books shifted from agriculture to medicine. They were obviously the subject of her most recent obsession. A crinkled note with creases covering every inch had symptoms written upon it: _blackouts, lost time, buzzing._

“Langdon?”

The blond turned on his heel, coming to her side in two strides and keeping her from sitting up. “Stay down. How are you feeling?”

Em scrunched her eyes closed, everything was spinning. Langdon’s voice sounded like it was coming from a bubble. Voices whispered in a language she couldn’t understand, as if every sound she had ever heard was being spoken at once. Then there was the screaming, also distant — the kind she’d only hear in her dreams.

“Emily…” She said, unable to remember what he had just asked her. Her head felt heavy, her lips numb. Her voice felt like it was reverberating back to her, making it hard to focus on a single thought. “…and Timothy…”

“Are perfectly alive and well,” he replied quickly, “I’m more concerned about you.”

“Is that… for the… time being... or...?"

Langdon couldn’t help but shake his head, a smile forming at her obstinance. “Ye of little faith.”

A brief smile curled onto her lips as well and she sat up. Langdon hovered over her, moving pillow to support her back. The fog around her mind began to clear, the bubble starting to burst. She didn’t dare open her eyes in fear that she’d throw up all over the man.

“I’m not glass,” she said, resting her head on the wall behind her. Em tried to focus on the feeling of it as well as that of the pillows behind her back and sheets under her fingers. Maybe then the world would finally stand still.

“I know.”

“What about Venable’s rules?”

Langdon’s voice was terse, tired of her avoiding his questions. “Your friends are cleared of any and all crimes.”

Em’s relief was brief. Her heart began to pound in her ears, her lungs suddenly feeling constricted.

“Emily?”

Her breathing came out in short gasps. Every inhale was cut short and every exhale was but sputtering fumes.

“I need…” she gaped, hands going to her throat, “…air…”

The bed dipped under the weight of Langdon sitting beside her, hands grasping at her arms painfully as she began to convulse.

“Emily!”

Finally, Em opened her eyes. She needed to see him. She needed to find someone who could clear her throat… do _something_ to help her. All she was met with was darkness, her heart skipping a beat in terror.

“I can’t see,” she gasped, choking on her own words, “I can’t—”

Em flinched at the feeling of hands on her face, forcing her head back. Langdon cradled her head in his hands, pressing down on the center of her forehead with his thumbs. Her hands grasped at his arms like he was choking her, nails digging into his skin.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, trying to get her to calm down, “you’re alright. Let me do this. Let me help you.”

“I can’t see,” she cried, voice growing more and more distant. Limbs turned to led, her grip on Langdon’s arms loosening before her hands fell limp at her sides, “I can’t—”

A hissing sound filled her ears, too quiet to discern any detail from it. She felt like she was floating, a light exploding behind her eyes. Then, once more, darkness.

  
  


* * *

  
  


After being put under anesthesia, most patients had a feeling of the world just being… off. Their mouths felt like cotton and their limbs were made of hundred-pound weights.

Em felt… _clarity_. Her body was a separate entity of which she could hardly control, but her mind was clear. She awoke with such alertness she could have sworn someone had doused her with ice water.

Langdon. She had to find him.

Sitting up took longer than she wanted, body not quite ready to listen to her orders. It didn’t matter. She’d make it listen.

Hitting the ground with a thud, Em felt the wind knocked out of her lungs. The force, however, was enough to wake her limbs. First were her hands which reached out for purchase. Em used the leg of the bed to pull herself towards the door. Second to wake were her legs, which cooperated with the rest of her like a newborn fawn.

The world spun and blurred, flashing in and out of her vision. Atop it lapsed flashes of visions — blond hair, blue eyes, bodies convulsing in the salon, waves crashing on a sandy shore as light bounced off them bright enough to blind. They never stayed long enough for her to catch more than brief, vivid details. It took all her focus to get dressed and even that took her an hour.

Staggering to the door, Em hit at the handle for good measure with the coordination of a toddler. Fingers that could paint portraits refused to cooperate. She found herself ramming her shoulder into the door until it opened, nearly toppling over and sprawling to the floor in the process.

The hall brought its own set of difficulties. For one, she couldn’t tell up from down. The wall served as her center of gravity. Corners proved another challenge. At best Em just followed the wall. At worst, she flung herself across the intersection and prayed she didn’t bash her head in.

By the time she had made it across half the compound, she had regained most of her motor functions. She’d take teetering like a drink over the world flipping around like a rolling car. Greys would clear the way and spare her a sideways glance, but she didn’t have time to deal with them.

“Em!”

She didn’t have time to find the source of the voice before a body slammed into hers. Arms twisted around her and squeezed before releasing her.

A woman — _Emily_ — stood before her, a grin a mile wide as she cupped Em’s face. Em grimaced at the sensation. She had never been the hugging sort.

“You’re alright!” Emily beamed, “There were whispers about the fight. I was so worried!”

Finally noticing the dark purple stain blooming from brown hair at her temple, Emily’s face twisted in concern. She quickly removed her hands and instead held the woman by the shoulders. It was taking all Em’s focus to stay grounded in the conversation.

“You should be in bed!” her friend scolded, “Everything is fine! _We’re_ fine!”

“Langdon—” Em said. The only thing she could say before the world spun around her again. She scrunched her eyes and visions flashed, overlapping with reality.

_Langdon… Langdon…_

Emily laughed, “Landon pardoned us! The rules were fake and — _Emily_!”

Em had forced her way past the woman, pushing her to the side and making a beeline down the hall. Emily was left to gape in the middle of the hall, unsure of what had happened or why or what was causing her friend to act so… different.

The door to Langdon’s personal room was closed, as usual. This time her hands cooperated with her to turn the handle, pushing it open and closed with two loud bangs. The world spinning once more as she fell back on the door.

Langdon had jumped at her sudden entrance, shoulders relaxing as he realized it was just her. She rose to his feet, watching her as she just stared at him. All she could do was stare at him, relief finally settling into place.

“Michael,” she sighed, crossing the floor in three, wobbling strides to kiss him. Langdon’s eyes widened in surprise, hands hovering over her not quite sure where to go. Her hands felt warm, one on his neck and the other cupping his cheek, guiding him to her. He relaxed, one hand settling on her waist and the other twisting under her arm to rest on her shoulder and pull her closer to him.

It was bliss, her lips. He could have kissed her for an eternity and not have grown tired of them.

Michael was quickly sobered by a hard, stinging slap. It was strong enough to make him turn and double over. The sound of it rang throughout the room. He wouldn’t be surprised if the entirety of Outpost Three could hear it.

“You _bastard_!” she growled.

Langdon let out a quiet groan and an annoyed sigh, “So you remember.”

He took a moment to recover, opening and closing his mouth to see if it still worked. A hand had gone to cover his cheek. By the warmth of it, he reckoned there’d no doubt be a mark. He pulled back his hand. No blood. It was pure luck that she wasn’t wearing a ring.

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” She said with a scoff, a finger in his face as he finally righted himself, “ _you_ put the grimoire in my path!”

“What grimoire?”

Em was not focused on his words at _all_. She was raging at a level she had never felt before.

“A fucking _memory_ spell, Michael?” she yelled, “You had _no_ right.”

“I _gave_ you—”

Her lips pressed into a line and her glare was enough to get him to close his mouth and hold up his hands in defeat. “If you finish that line the way I _think_ you are I _will_ slap you again. How dare—”

Michael barely had a moment to catch the woman as her legs gave out from under her. She clung to his jacket but refused to let him help. The man could only grit his teeth as he struggled to help her up and lug her over to his bed.

“You’re pushing yourself,” He sang like a gloating mother whose kid was sick after eating too many sweets.

Em tried to stand but failed again, flopping to the ground. Michael moved to check her eyes, but she was moving too much for him to get a proper look.

“Will you stay _still_?” He snapped, reaching out to her face but only getting his hand slapped away as Em continued to get herself to her feet.

“I have a suburban mom’s _vacation slide-show_ playing in my head,” she snapped back. Em leaned on the man as she got up and finally flopped down on the bed. That was one battle over with. Michael knew there would be a hundred more. “So, _no_! I will not!”

“I’m _so_ glad your stubbornness hasn’t changed,” Langdon sassed, turning his chair around with a loud scraping sound and flopping in it. He grabbed Em’s head, a few words in Latin making the spinning stop and the visions more manageable.

“Now will you _calm down_?” he huffed, “What do you remember?”

Em groaned and let out a sigh, rubbing her temples as she closed her eyes and focused. “The Cooperative… the witches… Mead. _God_ , it’s like reading a book series out of order!”

Langdon smirked, “I thought you _liked_ doing that.”

The brunette opened her eyes simply to glare at him, eyes sharp enough to cut flesh.

“ _Shut up_. I’ll stab you — I swear to _god_ I will. _Especially_ now that I know you’ll survive it.”

Michael smiled and shook his head, leaning forward and biting his lips. How could he speed things up?

“Start from the beginning,” he said, placing a thumb at the center of her forehead between her brow.

“The beginning of the _apocalypse_ or of the life you _stole_ from me?” she asked, slapping his hand away when she heard the familiar sound of Latin, “If you think I’ll let you do another _fucking_ spell—”

Patience wearing thin, Michael gave her a look that rivaled her own. Relenting, she rose her hands in defeat.

“ _Fine_!”

Sighing, Michael cupped her cheek and pulled her towards him. Resting his forehead against hers and stroking her cheek to remind himself she was still there.

“I lost you once,” he whispered, voice wavering as tears threatened to spill over, “I won’t let it happen again.”

“I know,” Anger left her with a single sigh. Leaning against him, she held the hand that rested on her face. With a flickering smile, she turned and placed a kiss on his palm. Closing her eyes, she tried to form the words that would express what she really wanted to say. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to be angry.”

A relieved smile graced his face and green eyes looked into blue. For one more moment, they simply relished in the other's presence.

“I’ll let you stab me later.”

“ _Promise_?”

“Emily,” he warned, wanting to go back to business. As much as he wished to stay in this room all day with her, they had roles to fulfill.

With a resigned sigh, Em pulled away and allowed him to lean her back on the bed. Her hands tightened into fists a few times before laying at her sides.

“I’m putting you in a trance so your head won’t feel like it’s exploding,” He explained, voice smooth and calming, “try to focus on the beginning.”

Em closed her eyes once more and forced her way backward. What was the beginning? There were a few moments that could be described as such. Michael waited patiently for her to find it.

“You’ll stay here, right?” She asked.

“We’re stuck in an underground bunker,” he reminded, “there aren’t many places for me to go.”

She chuckled before nodding her head. “I’m ready.”

The sound of Latin filled her ears, her mind catching up enough to translate a few words. Em felt herself slipping into a dream-like state. The actors settled on the scene, the setting fell into place, and the curtains rose.

Emily remembered _everything_.


	13. Apocalypse Then - 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Thank you so much for putting up for the long lapse in updating. Unfortunately, I will not be able to update as quickly due to a mixture of school and work. This means updates will be inconsistent for a while, but I am determined to see this project from beginning to end!  
> As always, thank you all for the continued support -- kudos and comments make my day. I love hearing your thoughts.  
> Now... on to the story

The Louisiana heat wouldn’t have bothered her if not for the humidity that came with it. Em… _Emily_ was used to the southern heat, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. She only hoped the old house had a good AC system.

A pure white beacon of light and hospitality, the house looked like it came right out of the 1800s. It had a wrap-around porch, wrought iron railings, and white columns that reminded her of a Greek mausoleum. Her mother gushed about the architecture behind her, a pipe dream of her idealized home.

It was beautiful, yes, but Emily’s gut twisted as she felt something in the air that was somehow heavier than the boxes in her arm. The weight of history or the weight of her own anxiety, she couldn't tell. Either way, it intertwined with the humidity to create something that stuck to her skin, suffocating her.

Her parents worked with a boy to carry her things inside — Kyle. He moved past her and up the front steps, carrying three boxes of books as if they were nothing. The boy had been silent save for his introduction. Not that any of them had bothered talking to him.

That boy felt… _off_. Emily had stared at him for the longest moment, not quite convinced he was real. She had never seen a butler before, didn’t think they even _existed_ in the modern world. However, that wasn’t what threw her off. Something about the way he held himself wasn’t quite human… not to mention the strange familiarity she felt when she looked at him. Eventually, Emily had pulled her eyes away, breaking the feeling his presence evoked.

 _One step at a time._ That’s what she kept reminding herself. It was a hard mentality to keep. With every step she took she wondered why she was even there.

A buzzing filled her body, reverberating deep in her bones. The feeling was similar to that of being underwater, the world above nothing but a memory which her lungs ached for. All the brunette could do is stare at the house, unable to shake the feeling.

Anxiety was a bitch.

“Do you need help with that?”

Emily barely even noticed the woman that approached her, long straight brown hair and donned in shades of black. Zoe had visited her back home, informed her of this private girl’s school of which Emily suddenly had a full-ride scholarship to.

Looking back, she should have known magic was real by the glazed look in her parents' eyes when she arrived home one weekend. Zoe had been at the table across from them. Emily would always remember the glazed look in their eyes. They rose no questions about an all-girls boarding school. It was a fact of life gone unquestioned and unrivaled. There was a school in Louisiana and Emily would be attending as soon as her college approved the transfer.

Green eyes glanced at Zoe before turning back to the mansion before her. The woman came to stand by the new arrival, about to open her mouth to say something until the brunette beat her to the punch.

“I’ve seen this place before…” Emily murmured before she could think.

Zoe was surprised for but a moment before a smile flickered across her lips. She remembered the feeling of knowing everything and nothing at the same time, reaching into an ancient power so familiar and foreign at once.

“Where?” she asked, trying to prompt the girl more. Patiently, she stood and waited for an answer.

“In a dream…” Emily went on, “there was a boy… made from the parts of others. You couldn’t tell it by looking at him, though.”

“What did this boy look like? Zoe asked, forcing her back to relax despite the hairs that rose on the back of her neck.

“… Blonde?”

Whatever trance Emily was in seemed to break. Her posture changed, the box she held weighing her down more than it had moments prior. She offered Zoe an awkward smile, desperately hiding her embarrassment. “It was a dream. Didn’t remember everything.”

The pair stepped to the side as Emily’s father came by with more boxes. His lips twisted in a strained scowl as he tried to carry more boxes than Kyle. Emily sighed at the display, moving out of his way with Zoe. The senior witch noted the other woman’s body twisting so she’d be as far from the man as possible.

“I feel like I’m moving an entire house,” Emily finally spoke, trying to break the awkward silence with a pathetic attempt at humor. A crooked and awkward smile flickered across her lips but was gone just as fast.

“Trust me,” Zoe reassured with a smile. She took a box from the car and moved to guide Emily inside. “I’ve seen girls that brought way more than you have. My first roommate had so many clothes that…”

Emily’s eyes drifted upwards once more as they approached the front door. Green eyes focused on a window where movement fluttered behind the curtains. For a moment, she caught the eyes of a silhouette standing behind the glass, the only feature she could discern being a head of blonde hair. Then, they were gone and her eyes returned to her feet as she made her way up the front steps and into her new home.  
  


* * *

“We don’t even know if she has any gifts!”

Cordelia pulled away from the window of her room as Myrtle bemoaned yet another of her displeasures. The visit to Hawthorne had put all of them on edge. The red-head was now questioning every move her supreme made. She was torn between her role as Cordelia’s guardian and her role as a council-member under the leadership of the witch queen.

“An anonymous call from Atlanta about a possible witch?” Cordelia questioned, brows knitting in confusion as she looked upon Myrtle. Her voice had an air of confidence which made it difficult to disagree. “Delphi may be disbanded and many of their order killed, but they still exist. Atlanta is their heart. We couldn’t risk it.”

Myrtle’s lips twisted as she realized the blonde woman had a point, but the red-head had always been stubborn.

Cordelia sighed. There were so many thoughts in her mind, so many decisions to make and plans to create. It made her miss the days where she could sit in her greenhouse stirring potions.

“There’s something in her eyes, Myrtle,” Cordelia said, turning from the woman with a shake of her head to look out the window once more. Below the girl stood, parents in front of her. The car was empty, doors closed. The brunette stood stiffly as her parents hugged her, making no move to hug them back. “That girl needs us… she needs a _family_ … a _mother_.”

“Don’t go imprinting on the child too quickly, Delia. She may be the cuckoo in the nest” Myrtle warned. With a huff, she crossed her arms, coming to stand beside the woman at the window. “Let’s first make sure she has a lick of magic in her bones.”

Myrtle watched the woman beside her. Cordelia’s eyes were trained on the young woman as she walked back up to the front door, not even waiting for her parents to drive away.

“She does,” Cordelia spoke with such a conviction that cut through any doubts Myrtle may have had. Her hands rested on the window frame, holding back the curtain as a smile flickered to the Supreme’s lips. She felt almost… giddy. This house had stood empty for so long. Now it was filled once more with her fellow sister-witches. “I can feel it.”

A knock pulled the pair from the window.

“Miss Cordelia?” a muffled voice called from the other side of the door.

Cordelia turned towards the door behind her, “Come in.”

Zoe poked her head through the door, hands resting on the door as she leaned in.

“The family has left. Can I give the all-clear?”

Another motherly smile pulled at Cordelia’s lips and she gave a single nod. Zoe pulled back, the door slowly closing behind her.

“And, Zoe?”

The door stopped closing and, though she could not see Zoe, Cordelia knew the woman was listening.

“Give our new sister the unedited tour, will you?”

* * *

Emily stood in the front hall. A few girls donned in black dresses wandered here and there. The brunette felt out of place in a bright pink t-shirt, jean jacket, and shorts. A hand went to her messy pony-tail, rubbing the ends of it between her fingers as she tried to figure out what she was supposed to do.

She had gone to public school all her life and _had_ been going to a public college before Zoe came and told her she was a witch. The brunette had laughed when Zoe said those words, the moment all too similar to when Hagrid met Harry Potter.

Still, she couldn’t believe it. It was like watching one of those ghost videos. Yeah, they were scary, but there had to be a logical explanation— dust, strings, a hidden person slamming a door. Her mind was at war, logic fighting whatever was in her gut that told her this was real… that magic was real. Even if it was… _she_ certainly didn’t have any.

If she did… well… the universe must have a hell of a humor. Admitting it was real meant that all along she could have—

When one goes home for the weekend in college, they expect a nice warm meal that didn’t come from a pack of instant-ramen, a functional washer and dryer, and the smell of nostalgia. Not that Emily could remember much of her childhood — trauma was a bitch.

Emotional abuse was harder to prove than physical. Her parents stopped hitting her once she hit puberty. For some reason bruises on a child for “ _getting whooped_ ” were normal until that point.

Since she had left for college, they had been nice, but it was a cheap plastic mask. Other’s couldn’t see it, but she certainly did. Emily would pay the price for groceries and a warm meal with gaslighting and manipulation. _That_ was a price she was willing to pay until she could finally leave that vile place.

Hell may be horrible, but she could write her own rules and right now… well, this place was probably the farthest from that hell she would ever get. Emily had understood the rules back home. She had a plan. Now she was free-falling, trying to find her footing in a world she wasn’t even sure existed. _Magic_? Magic was a fairytale, a dream children procured because the real world was lackluster and cruel.

Emily stepped back as a girl passed her in the hall. The brunette’s arms were curled into her chest, hands running through the ends of her ponytail as she wandered and waited for someone to tell her what to do. With a shake of her hands, she forced herself not to fidget. It made her look pathetic.

Before, she had been living in a dorm room. A small tomb of a thing barely larger than a broom closet. Here it felt like she was on the set of _John and Kate Plus Eight,_ some stranger walking into the home of a large family with more than forty kids.

There seemed to be girls of all ages here, some no older than ten and others who looked to be almost in their thirties. It made the place feel more like a cult than a school. Then again, Zoe _had_ called it a coven. Were the two really that different?

The sight of the other brunette woman descending the stairs was enough to make Emily’s shoulders to relax, but the rest of her was just as tense as before. Zoe’s eyes met her own and she offered a reassuring smile.

“I didn’t realize there was a dress-code,” Emily noted, that fleeting crooked smile coming to her lips once more. Why couldn’t she shut up for five seconds— let the silence sit?

“There isn’t, but most of our girls come from places where Gucci is casual-wear,” Zoe said with a laugh, finally reaching Emily’s side, “Ready for the tour?”

Biting her lip and tugging at the end of her shirt, Emily nodded. Zoe kept pace with her as they walked through the halls. Girls who had ignored her before now offered smiles, some even greeting the woman beside her in a friendly manner. Emily had ways been a wallflower, but the change in their demeanor felt isolating. Then again, outsiders were usually kept at arm's length in places like these.

“The salon is where most girls hang out… there or in the garden,” Zoe spoke, gesturing to a large room directly on their left. She was a very animate speaker, always moving her hands.

The walls on the inside the salon were painted the same white as the outside, the furniture matching its surroundings and accented with dark wood. A few tables sat here and there, girls either sitting together or alone, and a grand piano was tucked into the corner of the room. However, it was the portraits that stood out to her. They covered the walls, barely leaving a blank space. Some were small and others were so large they could have taken up an entire wall on their own. It was as if the people displayed were competing for space.

Zoe gently urged her towards the other side of the hall. A grand opening in the wall allowed Emily to see part of a very long dining table. “and the dining area is where some classes are held, but most are done outside to keep damage to a minimum.”

“Damage?” she asked, Zoe only able to give her a knowing smile as she saw the answer dawned on Emily’s face, “Sorry… magic… right.”

“We only eat here for special occasions,” Zoe explained, “The kitchens down the hall are where most girls prefer to eat. Only the youngest of us have specific dining times so feel free to pop in whenever you wish.”

There was an elephant in the room of which the woman had yet to address. Then again, Zoe was surrounded by magic constantly. It was probably as natural to her as breathing. Things became less… _strange_ with time, Emily supposed. She couldn’t help but wonder if this place was like those vampire-cults — people that pretended magic and the supernatural were real.

God, why did she come here? She couldn’t get a _job_ with magic. What would she say at interviews? That she spent the past four years in an old mansion dressing to the nines and pretending she was at Hogwarts?

A string of silence came between them, halls filled with the sound of heels on hardwood and residual chatter.

“When did you know you had magic?” Emily finally asked, wringing her hands and only sparing brief glances at the woman beside her.

Zoe slightly tensed, more due to her being lost and thought than in regards to that particular bad memory. With a sigh, she took a moment to collect her thoughts, stopping in her tracks and turning to the girl when she had finally found the words.

“I killed my boyfriend,” the senior witch explained before chuckling to herself, “like Rogue from X-men.”

The humor did little to ease her companion. She watched as Emily’s brows furrowed and lips twisted. There wasn’t much one could say to what Zoe told her. ‘ _Sorry_ ’ felt like a cop-out and she didn’t know the woman a lot to offer any other words of reassurance.

“It’s alright,” Zoe reassured, offering a brief touch to Emily’s arm. The brunette tensed but made no move away from her tour guide. “I’ve moved past it. _Controlled_ my power.”

Emily fell back into step with the girl as they made their way down the hall once more, “…Is it always that extreme?”

Zoe smiled and shook her head, “some of the most powerful witches in history did not have evident powers. Some of us only have powers seen through rituals, aided by objects or symbols.”

The other girl simply nodded along with Zoe’s words. Emily’s disbelief wasn’t hard to pick up on, the air around her thick with it. If not for the extremity of her own awakening, Zoe might not have believed in magic, either.

“I’m holding a lesson tomorrow,” the senior witch said, smiling and gesturing towards the girl, “Perhaps you’d like to sit in? I think you’d find it encouraging.”

“I—”

“Hey! _Sabrina_!” a voice cut her off, a frantic clicking of heels coming from down the hall. A blonde woman marched towards them looking less than pleased. Zoe only sighed as she came to stop in front of them, arms crossing over her chest as she scowled. “Some D-rated witches fucked up and need someone with _real_ talent to fix it for them.”

“You’re not powerful enough?” Zoe said with a scoff, crossing her arms as well and raising a brow.

“ _I_ don’t clean up other people’s messes.”

“They just have to clean up yours, right?”

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. Pulling her sunglasses down her nose, she narrowed her eyes at Emily. The girl stood looking between the pair and waiting for their conversation to end.

“What are _you_ staring at?” she demanded, “want an autograph or something?”

Zoe was quick to move between the two, “She’s new.”

The blonde let out a short, mocking laugh as she eyed the new girl up and down, “I’d say. Pro-tip newbie: don’t kill anyone…”

Her attention turned to Zoe, not bothering to hide her murderous glare, “…they might not stay dead.”

With the few words of wisdom, she pushed past the pair, making sure to bump Emily’s arm in the process. “And get a wardrobe change, Cinderella — we wear Chanel, not Goodwill.”

Zoe only rolled her eyes. Ever the drama-queen, that one. Letting out a breath, she refocused on the task at hand.

“I don’t think you need much introduction for that one.” She said, giving Emily a reassuring smile, “and, yes, she’s always a bitch.”

Emily looked confused, “who is she?”

“You don’t know?”

The brunette shook her head. “Should I?”

“That’s Madison Montgomery. You really haven’t heard of her?”

“Nope.”

Zoe laughed, a grin crawling to her lips as she shook her head in disbelief, “I think you’re my new favorite student.”

Another pair of footsteps coming towards them drew their attention away from each other once more. A smiling girl with light brown hair and a golden headband that looked more like a crown approached them. Another woman stood at her side, pushing back her short blonde hair and looking almost as uncomfortable as Emily did.

Zoe smiled at the girl in return, stepping back from her defensive position over Emily. “Perfect timing.”

Zoe gestured between the pair as she made introductions, “Emily needs a new tour guide. A fault spell needs my attention.”

The girl nodded her head, turning her attention to Emily and extending a hand as Zoe made her way down the hall, “I’m Mallory.”

The blonde beside her stepped forward to shake her hand, grip firm and business-like. “Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt.”

“Welcome to Robichaux Academy,” Mallory beamed. Emily stiffened as she came between herself and Coco, lacing her arms with their own. A big grin covered her face. “Let’s give you both the grand tour.”

* * *

Emily sat on her small, twin-sized bed. Books were scattered around her as she slowly put them onto the shelf by the authors' names. It was the calmest she had been since arriving, allowing herself to give in to the focus the task required.

She had a room to herself — thank god. It may have been a broom-closet once upon a time, but it had a window and enough space to keep her from feeling claustrophobic. A few plants and the place would have a life of its own. Emily was partial towards baby’s breath and lavender.

A knock pulled her from her silent reverie. Her heart leaped in her chest, hands hovering over a copy of _Wuthering Heights_. Stepping back from the bed, she made her way to the door. A woman stood on the other side, poised with blonde hair and brown eyes. Emily bit her lip, waiting for her to speak.

“Hello,” the woman finally spoke.

Cordelia was finally able to see her new sister up-close. Zoe had taken her case weeks prior, the blonde being too tired and weak to take the journey on her own. She smiled at the girl — curly brown hair reaching her shoulders and hazel-green eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed glasses.

“…hello.” The girl finally spoke.

“I’m Cordelia Goode — a headmistress of sorts.”

The girl only nodded, “Emily.”

She was notably anxious. All Cordelia’s girls were. The supreme could feel the air sparking like a lighter that wouldn’t catch flame. Yes… this girl had magic in her bones. Perhaps it was buried inside her, but it was there.

Emily stepped back and allowed Cordelia to come inside, watching her as she looked around before settling on the desk chair. “I am very sorry to have kept you waiting this long.”

“That’s alright,” the girl replied, almost as if she were afraid to speak too loudly.

“I assume you’ve been told why you’re here.”

Slowly, the brunette mirrored the woman’s actions, taking a seat on her bed. It squeaked under her weight, old iron frame bending.

“Vaguely,” she said with a nod, “you’re a school for exceptional young girls…”

Her eyes flickered up from the floor for only a moment before they returned to bore a hole in the floor. Emily bit her lip as she thought about the next words to say. Cordelia simply sat back and waited for her to find them.

“… I think you must have gotten me confused for someone else.”

Cordelia cocked her head and her brows furrowed ever slightly, “why on earth do you think that?”

“I’m 19… and they spoke of magic, but I’ve never done anything of the sort in my life.”

“We cater to girls and women of _all_ ages,” the supreme reassured, sitting forward in her chair, “and some girls simply need the right push. Tell me— what makes you different than other girls?”

“What makes me… _different_?”

Emily had always hated the cliché line of ‘ _I’m different from other girls.’_ It was so… unbelievable. Everyone was weird. Everyone had their quirk. Everyone was _different_ in some form or another. Mediocrity was a trait they all shared and they all feared.

“I could be something small,” Cordelia said, “exceptionally good luck, always knowing when something is wrong, dream-like—”

She perked up a beat in her seat, “Dreams?”

“Well, that’s what some girls call their visions,” Cordelia said. Emily wondered how she smiled for so long without her cheeks hurting. “At least, those inclined to them. They pass out and see a loved one in a car wreck or the answers on a test.”

“My grandmother used to jest that when she dreamed something three times it would come true,” Emily recalled. She quickly shook her head free of the thought. “But to say she saw the future…”

“What about _you_ ,” Cordelia asked, “Do _you_ have any strange dreams?”

She watched the brunette glance to the piles of books beside her on the bed, hands hovering over a journal. Emily pulled it to her, contemplating its existence. Her hand hovering over the cover before pulling away. “Fever dreams, maybe… but nothing prophetic.”

“Fever dreams?”

“Dreams that don’t function like dreams are supposed to.”

“And how are dreams _supposed_ to function?”

“… I don’t know,” Emily admitted, sighing and shaking her head. Instinctively, she brought the journal to her lap like a dragon hoarding its treasure. “But when my friends talk about their dreams… it’s always _reflective_ of _reality_. I’ve always been… _creative_ so I thought I just had an overactive imagination.”

Cordelia rose from her chair and slowly came to the bed. After carefully moving the books to the side she lowered herself beside the girl. “Tell me about your dreams.”

Tentatively, Emily opened the first page. That journal was her mind, her most precious treasure. It was her everything.

Cordelia couldn’t even glean something from the pages of that journal even if she wanted to. The brunette flipped through the pages so quickly that she could only see a few well-sketched images accompanying the text. Even then, it was gone before she could process what it was attempting to portray.

“One time I dreamed that I was burnt as a witch,” Emily noted, finally settling on a page. Her hand hovered over the words, tracing each sentence like it was a map to buried treasure. “There was this small school trip in the early 1900s or late 19800s-”

This piqued Cordelia’s interest. “You can pinpoint the years?”

“Sometimes. Usually depending on the dress and architecture. I was no older than 13 in the dream. They used a chain tied to branches to dangle me over a campfire…”

Emily turned to the woman ever slightly, hesitantly holding out the book for Cordelia to see the pictures. On the page, a girl was on her tip-toes, crying as she tried to keep her footing in some desperate hope to escape. The fire around her dashed those hopes and the girl turned her face to the sky in one last plea to the heavens.

The girl pulled back, flipping through more pages with more sketches. A sticky-note was pinned here and there with symbolic meanings or names that turned out to be so much more than a passing figure.

“Some are nonsense,” Emily admitted, turning a bit more to the woman who looked at the book with her, “but they had themes which I thought would make a good story.”

Cordelia leaned in as something caught her eye. Carefully, she pointed to a picture. “What about this one?”

The image displayed was of a boy, arms outstretched as if he were Christ himself. A halo surrounded his head of golden hair.

“That one was weird,” Emily noted with a chuckle, “I remember the pictures more than anything. A boy practicing magic as a dark-haired woman stood watch…”

Cordelia could feel the power in the air shift as the girl spoke of her dreams. Once again, it was a spark… but it so wanted to become a flame. Cordelia could _feel_ it.

“…she found me watching, but the boy told her to let me closer,” Emily went on before shaking her head. She was letting herself get… _hopeful_? There wasn’t quite a word for it. “But they’re _just_ dreams. Tools to aid my storytelling.”

With a sigh, Emily rose from her spot, collecting more journals. It wasn’t hard to tell they were all filled with dreams. Carefully, the brunette situated them on the bookcase, moving them around so they’d be in the proper order.

“What’s the first dream you remember?” Cordelia asked.

“A nightmare. Standard kids’ stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Cannibal clowns,” Emily said with a sigh, turning to face the woman. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. When was this conversation going to end? When would this woman realize that she wasn’t special?

Cordelia’s surprised face amused her. A small smile flickered to her lips and she shook her head. “I had older brothers that liked to scare me.”

“I see…”

“…There was another one,” the girl murmured. Her brows knitted as she stared at the floor. “a voice at the side of my crib… said I’d ‘ _be free of it soon.’_ I thought it was my sister, but she was across the room with her friend.”

 _“_ You were still in a crib?”

 _“_ Memories are faulty. Probably just a… false one.”

Her pause told Cordelia everything. The words left unsaid filled in the blanks. ‘ _Hopeful thinking_ ’ was what the girl had meant to say. It was written all over her face.

“Can I go home now?”

The comment pulled Cordelia out of her thoughts like ice water in the morning. “Go home?”

When she looked around the room, she found most of the boxes still piled in the corner, seals of tape unbroken.

“I’m _not_ the girl you’re looking for. Fever dreams aren’t prophetic.”

Cordelia rose from the bed, steeping forward ever slightly. Emily flinched as she placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in what was _supposed_ to be a comforting gesture.

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

Emily was quick to pull away, “Don’t we all?”

“You uprooted yourself to come here,” Cordelia reminded, watching as the brunette moved past her to organize her books again.

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“A choice none the less. They couldn’t have forced you here.”

The girl shook her head as she remembered the men that accompanied Zoe. They had stood on either side of the woman like marble statues, expressions unreadable. “They certainly seemed like they would.”

Cordelia took another step towards the girl. She was evading. The blonde had done the same thing whenever her mother had come to visit.

“Part of you wanted to see what was the truth.”

Emily’s shoulders sagged as she looked at the book in her hand. The plot was the same as all the others — a main character found they were something more and went on a grand adventure.

“Everyone wants to be special,” she said with a sigh, “I am no exception.”

When she turned to Cordelia, the supreme saw the same defeat that had once been in her own eyes. Fiona had dropped her at this school without a word of warning. She was forced to navigate a world she had heard of but didn't understand

A sad smile came to her lips and she placed a hand once more on the girl’s arm.

“Walk with me.”

* * *

Emily liked the gardens much more than she liked the house. They weren’t vast, a few acres at best, but they were beautiful. Whatever aura the house had held was melted away by the sun. The warmth of it on her skin made the brunette feel like she was wrapped in a blanket before a fire. She had half the mind to just sit and bask in it.

Her new headmistress had another idea, leading her beyond the pretty flowers and trees as old as time itself. Emily didn’t even notice the greenhouse until they were walking through the door. Ivy and chickweed climbed up the side, so thick they could have used it to climb up on the roof.

The fauna eclipsed the sun the second they stepped inside, a few beams of light here and there, just enough to see by. Cordelia was quite at ease, in her element. The chaotic arrangement of tools, fertilizer, and plants in a secret pattern only she understood.

“The light from which we draw our magic is at times like a science,” the woman spoke. Emily stood on one end of a long wooden table while Cordelia circled to the other side, fingers ghosting over various tools scattered here and there. A few she plucked up, placing them to the side. “It doesn’t look like magic, but can only be created by those who possess it.”

Emily’s brows furrowed as she regarded Cordelia with confusion. “Like the philosopher’s stone?”

“For someone so convinced she is not a witch you certainly have done your research,” the blonde said, looking up with a smile. Emily shifted uncomfortably, looking once more to the floor.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the occult.” She said, “…plus that was more of a reference to _Harry Potter_.”

Cordelia chuckled. Quietly. She gathered a few more materials. Emily watched her do so, averting her eyes whenever the blonde would look at her to hide her curiosity. Her mother always said it was rude to stare.

“I’d like you to try something,” the woman finally proposed, clearing an area on the table and pulling up another stool. She gave it a pat. “If you’re willing.”

“Depends on what that something is.”

“You’re cautious. That’s good. Many girls come here in hoping to conquer the world only to be met with ill results and often ill fates.”

Pushing off the wall she had been leaning on, Emily made her way over. Scooting the stool a few more inches away from the woman, she finally sat down. Cordelia felt her eyes on her as she flipped through a box of recipes. She set a card between them on the table.

“The plants in this greenhouse are prone to fading either due to magic or neglect.”

“You want _me_ to bring them back to life?” Emily asked, voice incredulous.

“I want you to _help_ bring them back to life.” Cordelia noted, “if you’re _not_ a witch, the paste will have no effect. It will just be a collection of blended herbs and flowers.”

Pulling the recipe towards her, green eyes flickered over the words.

“Seems easy enough.”

Meticulously and carefully, Emily set to work. Her hands were steady and cautious. Cordelia never lent a hand but watched from a nearby stool. Every now and again she could see confusion on the girl's face. Her lips twisted or eyes narrowed, letting Cordelia see exactly what was going on in her head. The brunette never asked questions, but Cordelia gave her guidance from afar. Telling her things such as, ‘ _roll the leaves instead of crush’_ or ‘ _add more water to make it pasty.’_

How Cordelia had managed to keep her white shirt stain-free was magic in and of itself. Green glop covered the brunette’s hands and trailed up her arms. She was forced to use her shoulder to readjust her glasses when they slipped down her nose. After a half-hour of careful construction, the blender was full of a green paste that looked like a vegan swamp monster's morning smoothie.

“Now place it onto the stems of the plant… right where the stems meet the earth,” Cordelia instructed, “then read the incantation on the back of the card.”

Emily did what she was told, but as she flipped over the card, she felt foolish. Half of her expected to be on some hidden-camera show. There had to be a crew waiting to pop out and humiliate her for even thinking magic could be real.

She held out her hand because it felt right. That’s what magic people do, right?

“ _Bagahi laca bachahe lumac cahi achabahe_ ,” She said, staring at the plant so intensely Cordelia half expected it to burst into flames, “ _Karrrelyos_.”

Nothing happened. The plants remained dry and wilted. The black lifeless stumps than looked more like skeletons than flowers.

“More intent,” Cordelia encouraged, “Focus more on what the spell should _do_ than what it _says_.”

“I don’t know what it says,” Emily grumbled.

Cordelia smiled; frustration meant learning. “Good.”

With a sigh, the brunette directed her attention back to the task at hand. God, she felt like an idiot.

“ _Bagahi laca bachahe,”_ she repeated, closing her eyes. Cordelia watched as her fingers twitched in the air. “ _lumac cahi achabahe… Karrelyos.”_

The Supreme could feel the magic spark once more, but die just as it had before. Emily’s magic was a cat trying to scratch its way out of an iron cage.

Emily opened one eye… then the other. The plant was still dead. How surprising.

“This is ridiculous,” the brunette sighed, turning to face Cordelia. She would have put her hands on her hips, but they were covered in a quickly drying green glop. Instead, she pushed past the woman and to the sink, rinsing the offending substance off her arms. “I’m _not_ a witch.”

The sound of a creaking stool caught her attention and Emily looked up from her arms. Cordelia took two steps towards their science experiment.

A few moments of murmuring and the drooping remains of flowers turned up towards the sky. The black stems turned green, the color stretching from the earth until it reached the flower which spread out in a plume of yellow.

“If you’re not a witch,” Cordelia noted, turning to the girl with a victorious smile, “then why does the paste work?”

Her mouth opened and closed, unable to find the words as green became as wide as saucers. Magic. Magic was real. Emily’s heart raced at the thought. It was real. It was real.

With a smile, Cordelia made her way towards the girl. Ignoring the way she tensed under her touch, the blonde placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.

“You’re a witch,” she whispered, a grin pulling at her lips. She sounded as giddy as Emily felt. “You may not see it now, but time will reveal your potential.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our MC is a lot different than her post-apocalypse days, but three or so years is a long time. Her confidence is lacking, but she'll eventually get it back. Just takes the right person to bring out the best in you, am I right?


	14. Thorns and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The next chapter is here! Thank you all so, so, so much for being patient. I'm working up to five hours a day, five days a week on top of college so balancing that has been a wild ride. I try to post constant updates on my Tumblr so, if you want, please give it a follow.
> 
> Now to the story!!

Cordelia looked down the dining room table at her girls. She loved all her students equally, but the original three held a special place in her heart. The feeling was much like a mother would feel towards her firstborn child.

Opulence covered the table, rich food on plates or in bowls that glittered from the light of the chandelier above them. Fresh flowers that never wilted were placed equally apart, tall enough to be seen and admired but not so tall as to block one's vision of the person across from them. Not a stain marked the white table. One of the perks of being magic was the ability to don white without damaging the fabric in the first few moments of wearing it.

Joining them were their two new arrivals. Coco had slowly but surely relaxed, accepting her new reality. Emily on the other hand… was resisting. Situated between Coco and Mallory, she looked between those talking, but never joined in the conversation herself. 

“Coco!” Mallory exclaimed, leaning forward to see past Emily. Something was held in her hand which she tossed at the young socialite. “Try this one!”

Emily looked between the pair, leaning back as a small cake was tossed in front of her. Mallory laughed at the face the brunette made, placing a gentle hand on her arm as she apologized. The other girl’s smile of reassurance was strained.

Their attention turned to Coco, a small gurgling sound leaving her as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Most of the girls paid no mind, engulfed in their own conversations and far too used to magic to be pulled from them.

Cordelia watched the exchange with a smile, chuckling to herself as Coco waved her hand over the pastry. Emily looked upon the scene with the same wide eyes the woman had seen in the greenhouse.

Suddenly the gurgling stopped and with a blink of her eyes, the blonde seemed perfectly normal. “Yep. This has gluten.”

“That was really cool, Coco!” Mallory said, her constant smile growing a little wider as she beamed at her new friend.

“If you consider looking like you’re having a seizure is cool,” Coco said, chuckling awkwardly as she looked to Emily, “Trust me, I know how I look.”

“…it isn’t that bad,” the girl tried to offer, more out of polite behavior than actual truth. 

Coco only laughed, “You’re a _horrible_ liar.”

As the chatter roared like waves crashing onto a sandy shore, Cordelia leaned towards her red-haired mentor. She was sure to keep her voice low, just in case the revelry was not enough to mask her words. 

“Do you recall any witch-hunting in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century?”

Myrtle sipped on her cocktail, a look of surprise quickly vanishing as thin brows furrowed. “There are still witch hunters, my dear. They’re a cockroach you cannot kill. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Are there _any_ that stand out? That were _different_ in some way?”

“I don’t know,” the woman sighed, humming as she thought. She waved the stick of olives in her drink as she thought, biting one off when she finally came to an answer. “There was a case of a particularly _powerful_ witch — showing _enormous_ talent with the gift of pyromancy. A boarding school under the care of the emerging Delphi organization brought her to a creek in the middle of the woods.”

Myrle scoffed in disdain, “ _using_ the poor dear as an _initiation_ ritual! Simply _barbaric_.”

“What happened to her?”

“She burned those who sought to burn her! Pushed the fire to consume them before collapsing in on itself. Wasn’t powerful enough to free herself, little as she was. Hung there for days before being saved. Then she made her way to our academy and the rest is history!”

Taking another sip from her drink, she turned to Cordelia with a raised brow. “Why do you ask, Delia?”

The Supreme’s eyes glanced over the table before she dared utter a word. 

“I felt her magic,” Cordelia explained after a long moment of pause as she considered her words, “her magic is… restrained… like a tiger in a cage.”

Myrle let out a short laugh, “aren’t we all.”

“She _knew_ that story, Myrtle,” Cordelia pressed, “she _dreamed_ it as if she were the woman herself.” 

“Seers are rare, even for our time. Two in one era would be _quite_ the feat. A Hollywood hoax would be more reasonable than—”

“No, I _tested_ her, Myrtle,” Cordelia said, eyes focusing on their new sister. Emily was more relaxed now, grinning and laughing as Coco told a wild tale. “She’s the real deal.”

* * *

First days were always stressful. Emily was beyond tired, hardly able to get some sleep the night before. In new places, it was normal to not sleep well. The body would put itself on alert just enough to react to any new threats. Emily could deal with that. It was the nightmares she could do without.

Dolls had been the bane of her childhood, creepy little creatures that didn’t blink. The brunette used to have nightmares of them as a child, but this was the first time she had one as an adult.

It was a strange dream. Quite short, as well. She was in an attic filled with dolls, tea sets, and small dresses. There was a shelf filled with the porcelain creatures. Walking towards it, she had filled with dread. Then, one of them screamed. 

It was enough to make her skin crawl.

Tugging at her skirt, Emily looked around the table. There wasn’t a familiar face among the girls, no one that she had dined with the night before. The dining room was free of food, but the white roses from the night before still stood proudly in their vases.

She felt underdressed — donning a self-made crop top with a touristy “Chicago” across the front she had gotten at Ross for five dollars and a high waisted black skirt that she had found in the depths of her boxes. Where she was from, most kids rolled out of bed in their PJs and went to class. 

The girls chattered amongst themselves, clad in Chanel, Ralph Lauren, and Tommy Hilfiger. She couldn’t tell one from the other, even with brand symbols proudly flaunted. Emily was just glad she liked black. The color hid the sweat from the Louisiana humidity. 

God, what was she doing here?

No one bothered to speak to her, too busy talking to one another. So, she fidgeted with her bracelet and waited for the class to start, listening in on the conversations around her.

“I practiced in my room for ages and still couldn’t do it!”

“I don’t think it’s actually possible to change the color of a rose… at least, not completely. Living things are _far_ too stubborn.”

“You’ve always preferred working with the dead.”

“It’s where my talent lies.”

“If Mallory can do it—”

“ _Mallory_ is a show-off. She was practically gloating when Miss Cordelia showed up.”

They were interrupted by someone entering the room. Emily had been so intently listening, eyes focused on the table before her, that she didn’t even note it till everyone went silent. When she looked up, Zoe was standing opposite to them with a calming smile on her lips.

“Alright girls,” she said, once again talking with her hands, “who would like to explain what we’ve been practicing?”

A girl to Emily’s left answered eagerly, “Changing the color of a rose!”

“Teacher’s pet,” the girl next to her whispered.

“Shut up!” the girl hissed.

Zoe was unaware of their banter, choosing instead to walk down the table until she settled before one of the vases. “It might seem easy to alter the color of a flower, but the rose is unique. It _resists_ change.

“One thing’s certain. Nothing is immutable when the will of a strong woman is applied.”

She looked to her students and gestured to them. Emily turned to watch their reaction, hands reaching out to grab a rose from the vases before them. Timidly, she mirrored their actions — watching how they held it, how they looked at it, how their expressions changed.

Their teacher herself plucked one from the arrangement, holding it out in front of her like a mirror. Zoe’s fingers tightened around the stem as she felt her magic rush through her. With furrowed brows, she focused on what she wanted. Slowly, red oozed onto the petals, a crimson stain that consumed them.

“Now…” Zoe said, looking to Emily with a grin, “show me how strong you are.”

Emily didn’t do anything for a long moment, choosing instead to observe. It was strange to see people look at an object with such intensity, their jaw flexed and eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets. 

Some students were able to conjure a color at the base of the petals, their eyes flickering with hope before the color faded. Others were only able to change a single petal or even the stem of the plant. One girl managed to wilt their flower into a blackened husk.

“Not again!” The girl cried, earning a little bit of laughter from her peers. “Why does this always happen?”

“You’re focusing too much on the part of you that can conjure fire,” Zoe noted, coming around the table with her rose and leaning over the girl. “Instead you focus on the…”

Emily turned back to her rose, staring down at it before lifting it up. She kept her hold on it loose as if she were a model for an 18th-century portrait.

She recalled her lessons in middle school, the water cycle and how it interacts with plant life. They had studied the way flowers take up water from their roots — how they consumed nutrients with no mouth. 

There was a video she had found where someone put blue food dye into the water. After a few days, its color of the petals came to match it.

The brunette pictured that, a puddle of blue at the stem that slowly crawled upwards towards the rose. Energy crackled through the air, felt by everyone but herself.

“I got it!” The girl with the charred flower exclaimed, the flower blooming into a bright yellow color. Zoe smiled at her.

“See, you just had to—”

Another girl leaped up in her seat, “I got it, too!” 

Loud conversation roared as success filled the room.

“Wow, the color is staying, too!”

“The planets must be in alignment or something.”

“I got it!”

Zoe looked upon her students with content. It was a wonderful feeling, seeing these girls succeed. She understood why Cordelia stayed with the school even when it was almost empty. There was no feeling that completed her quite as much as teaching.

Her eyes came to settle on her newest charge. Emily stared intently at a rose on the table, her hands on either side. Zoe moved to reassure her when she noticed her pallor, pink drained from her skin.

“Emily…” She said, going to rest a hand on the back of the girl’s chair. It screeched as it was flown back, a flurry of black rushing by Zoe and nearly toppling it over before they disappeared down the hall. 

“Looks like someone’s first day jitters got the best of them,” one girl noted, earning a few chuckles, “ _Her_ magical gift must be _indigestion_.”

“Oh, like you didn’t throw up the first time you sucked the life out of a fly.”

“Shut up!!”

Zoe paid no mind to their words, already chasing after the girl. Emily pushed past a few students, almost running into a confused Cordelia who stood in the center of the hall.

Pursing her lips, Zoe hung on the frame of the dining room’s doorway. Cordelia caught her eye and looked to her with a raised brow.

“Zoe! I can’t do it anymore!”

“…Keep practicing.” Zoe said, “I’ll be right back.”

The woman spared a glance at her students before her gaze returned to the hall. Pushing herself away from the room, she started to make her way to her Supreme.

“What’s going on?” the blonde woman asked.

Zoe shook her head, “I don’t know, but I have a hunch.”

The sound of retching filled the hall, the two women glancing at one other before hurrying towards the nearest powder room. Once again, the sound came and Zoe spared a worry glance to Cordelia before gently knocking on the door.

“Emily? Emily, we’re coming in.”

Inside the room, their new student was hunched over the toilet. Panting, her back arched as she was sick once more. Vomit burned her throat and stung her nose. She hadn’t been publicly ill since she was a child. It wasn’t a situation she was particularly happy about reliving. 

Cordelia knelt down at her side. Her hands went to the girl’s back, gently soothing her before moving back her hair with her other hand. Her words were hushed and comforting. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

“Sorry,” Emily apologized once she was able to catch her breath. She rested her head on the back her hands, for once glad they were permanently frigid.

Cordelia smiled at her, pulling her hair back into a ponytail before resting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We all get a nervous stomach sometimes.”

“I have anxiety… this wasn’t that. It—”

Another wave of nausea rolled over her and her throat burned. Cordelia felt energy crackle in the air, but it felt weaker than before. She looked up to Zoe who simply nodded, indicating she felt the same thing.

Once the retching passed, the girl finally turned to face the woman beside her. Zoe’s hands flew to her mouth as she gasped, running into the hall.

“Queenie!”

Emily’s brow furrowed as she looked to her headmistress. Cordelia’s lips pressed into a thin line as she reached over to grab a piece of toilet paper. The brunette stiffened as she reached out to wipe something from her mouth, hand immediately going up to stop her.

Taking the toilet paper in her own hands, Emily swiped at her face. Crimson filled her hands when she pulled it back. Her eyes darted to Cordelia, wide and full of fear. The woman’s gentle touch to smooth down her hair wasn’t as comforting as the blonde thought it was.

“Oh, shit!” a voice exclaimed from the door, Queenie standing with Zoe in the doorway. ” What’s going on here?”

Cordelia’s touch on Emily’s arm was as light as a feather, gently easing her up to her feet. Brows furrowed, she watched as the girl wobbled. Her brown eyes flickered between Emily and Queenie.

“Please take Emily up to her room,” Cordelia said, “Zoe and I will go to the greenhouse and make a remedy.”

Queenie simply nodded, coming forward and allowing the girl to lean on her. One of her hands wound around Emily’s waist to keep her steady. “I got you, girl.”

Emily closed her eyes as the world spun, only able to offer Queenie a thankful nod. Slowly, but surely, they began to walk down the hall. Cordelia watched them go, step by step. She wracked her brain for a remedy.

“There’s something different about her,” Zoe finally spoke once the student in question was out of earshot. “I—”

“Can feel her power?” Cordelia said, sparing her a glance. “So can I.”

“I think she was giving power to the other girls… not willingly. More like a generator.”

Cordelia’s gaze spoke volumes, skepticism written in her eyes.

“I’ve been teaching those girls since day one,” Zoe explained, “I know what they’re capable of. Girls who couldn’t even conjure a _color_ last lesson had suddenly created a perfect spell.”

Her Supreme shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“It doesn’t make sense. “Zoe said, “How could she be putting out magic without—”

“You said many of the girls who struggled with the spell found success.”

“Yes, but—”

“Perhaps they were able to tap into her magic because she was letting them— opening a door.”

“There’s no spell—”

They were interrupted by a shout from the second floor. Queenie’s voice shaking in their bones. “Cordelia!”

* * *

Emily stumbled a bit, the hand on her arm tightening around her wrist.

“Hang on there,” Queenie said, “You look like a rake, but I don’t think I’ll be able to carry you the rest of the way.” 

“Sorry,” She sighed, the pair stopping for a moment until the dizziness went away.

“That’s like the _fifth_ time you’ve apologized,” Queenie said, “I’m walking you back to your room, not bringing you back to life.”

“I hate being a burden.”

“I’ve spent the last few years in a hotel from _hell_ playing cards with a gambling _ghost._ _You’re_ a breath of fresh air.”

Emily let out a small, breathy laugh. A smile curled to her lips and Queenie couldn’t help but smile as well, shaking her head and chuckling. 

Then, the girl in her arms dropped like a sack of potatoes.

“Oh, _shit_!” Queenie cursed, tightening her grip as she tried to ease the girl to the floor. “Cordelia!” 

Queenie heard the Supreme bound up the stairs before she saw her. Cordelia was soon sprinting down the hall, her former student filling her in as she approached. 

“She just dropped like a rag doll!”

Dropping to the girl’s side, Cordelia’s hand went to Emily’s throat. Her pulse was still strong, but magic was thick in the air. The spark she had felt before morphing into a raging inferno.

“Let’s get her to her room.”

“How? We can’t carry her.”

On cue, Zoe appeared with Kyle. Zoe’s eyes were frantic, darting between the other women and her boyfriend. Her hand clutched onto his arm, tugging him along.

As soon as she was settled in her sheets, the three witches began throwing up protection rituals. Whatever caused this damage was magical in nature. Their spells would stabilize Emily until they found out exactly what they were working with. 

“What exactly can we do?” Queenie asked once the last incantation was uttered, “She has magic, but—”

“Remember the Seven Wonders?” Zoe asked, looking to Cordelia, “how you… got the sight back. Maybe something is keeping her from her own power.”

“Ok, but what?” Queenie said, “We can’t exactly go around mutilating—”

A whisper came from the bed. They all froze. 

“…Spalding.”

Hairs stood up on the back of Cordelia’s neck, dread rippling through her body. Her hands moved on instinct, throwing up more protective wards. 

“You stay away from _my_ girls!” She growled; dread replaced by roaring rage.

“She… found… me,” Emily spoke in her sleep, words slurred ever slightly. 

Zoe grabbed the hands of Queenie and Cordelia, pushing them into a circle over the girl. Queenie’s hand reached out for Cordelia’s. Their knuckles went white as they gripped onto each other for dear life. The muttered sounds of a banishing chant filling the room. 

Their voices grew louder and louder with each repetition until they were shouting as loud as they could. 

Spalding was resisting, his tie to the school making his power stronger. Zoe wondered if it were better to bring him back like they had the Axe Man. Kill him twice and kill him good.

A sigh trickled past Emily’s lips. Her peace was momentary, fear settling in as she lurched up with a gasp. Cordelia let out a relieved laugh, sitting on the bed and pulling her into a hug. Emily did not return the gesture, pulling away from the headmistress’s grasp.

“See you met the resident creep,” Queenie noted, crossing her arms over her chest as she glanced to Zoe and Cordelia. “Imma’ feel real exposed taking a shower tonight.”

Cordelia pulled away from Emily, placing a hand on her cheek. Her thumb brushed over her skin as if convincing herself the girl was still alive.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“… A room filled with dolls,” Emily said, the memory quickly fading. Her lips curled into a frown and her brows furrowed. “I hate dolls.”

The Supreme could only laugh, pulling away and looking up towards the other two witches. 

“She needs rest, but I don’t think she should be alone.”

“I can stay with her,” Zoe offered, “Queenie, you mind teaching my class.”

“I’m not dealing with spoiled rich girls,” Queenie said, “I already have to deal with Madison.”

Zoe gave the girl a look.

“… _Fine_ , but you owe me.”

* * *

After the incident, weeks passed with a semblance of normality. It was easy for Emily to fall into rhythm with her scheduled classes. At the moment, hers were more focused on the academic side of witchcraft than actual practice. 

Latin, rituals, wards, and anything else than could be found in the worn pages of the ancient copies were her daily routine. More often than not, she taught herself in the corners of the academy. Emily had a habit of worming herself into the tiniest corners no one noticed. Allowing her to be immersed in the ancient texts.

Zoe had taken to sleeping in her room as a precaution. Emily could not recall the incident with Spalding, a dream that left her as soon as she awoke. They were quick to fill her in on the creep.

Wards were placed in her room, but she still felt unsettled at the thought of a dead man creeping around in her head. Especially a man so obsessed with dolls. 

Either way, it was enough to convince her that she indeed was a witch, strange and unpredictable as her talent may be. 

Still, she spent most of her hours away from other students. Mallory, Coco, and herself would speak during meals. Outside of that, she only interacted with those of the “inner sanctum” — the original trio of witches. 

Emily sat in the greenhouse; books spread carefully around her as she wrote in her grimoire. She had always been content in her own company. Books, to her, were good if not better conversation partners than human beings. 

“I thought you were going to join the other girls on a walk.”

When she wasn’t reading, she was tending to the plants — germinating seeds and tending to their individual needs. Cordelia had taught her how to assess PH. Since then, the brunette had been diligent in her role. The greenhouse had never been more alive. 

Emily looked up from her books to the doorway, the light from outside surrounding Cordelia like a halo. 

She sighed, making an excuse up on the fly. Her hands tugging at her short locks of hair. 

“My leg hurts,” she said, looking back to her books, “and I didn’t want to risk getting my hair burned off again.”

Cordelia smiled and chuckled. The youngest fire-starters were always the ones that did the most damage. A curse of tantrums. 

Most of her girls were older, but uncontrolled magic made desperate parents search for guidance. Robichaux giving them a sense of hope despite the pain of separation. 

The Supreme wandered to the other side of the table. Trying to read upside down, she found that the girl was translating spells from Latin.

“You’re only going to get as much as you put in.” She reminded.

“What more can I do? I’ve read every book I could and memorized all the words and gone to lessons and _nothing_ happens.”

“Just because you cannot _change_ the color of a rose or _raise_ them from the brink of death _doesn’t_ mean you’re not as witch as the rest of us.”

Emily scoffed, focus returning to her books. “I talked to a creepy old man in my sleep and didn’t remember _any_ of it. I’m a fucking… _generator_ of magic, but _not_ a practitioner.”

Cordelia sighed and took a seat across from her, gently closing the books so that the young woman would have to look at her.

“You are a _catalyst_ ,” the blonde said, reaching to put her hand over Emily’s, “ _that_ is a power in and of itself.”

By now, the Supreme was used to Emily enough to not take offense when her hands slipped away from her touch. She watched as the brunette clenched her fists before settling them in her lap. Her hazel eyes tore away from Cordelia’s gaze and settled on a random plant somewhere behind the woman.

“In my dreams, I have so much _power_ ,” she explained. Her gaze wandered down to her hands, broken and useless things. “I can conjure flames, summon weapons to my hands, raise flowers to life, fly, and I…”

She sighed, clenching her hands into fists once more. “… I wake up and I am _powerless_.”

Cordelia’s head cocked as she listened to her. Emily didn’t often speak of her dreams, a secret she wished to keep close to her chest. It made Cordelia wonder about the source of her power… the specific talent which sang louder than the rest. She’d have to speak to Myrtle, but for now—

“I didn’t come to lecture or admonish,” The Supreme reassured, “Every path taken in this school is unique and I know you are strong enough to make your own way through the thorns.”

“Then why are you here?”

Hearing her words, Emily grimaced. “…sorry, that sounded—”

Her headmistress could only smile and shake her head, “You’re honest and to the point. There’s no crime in that.” 

Silence consumed them, Emily waiting for the woman to state her business. 

“I have a… _proposition_ for you,” Cordelia said.

“Which is?”

“How do you feel about California?”

* * *

Michael looked this way and that as he stepped out of the maze which was the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. Being recognized as alpha gave him a great deal more freedom than he had before, his professors more lenient towards his breaking of certain rules. The nature of his origins, however, was a secret he needed to keep close to his chest.

A smile pulled at his lips as he reached the cusp of the nearby hill. Mead was beaming at him, hands raised in the air as she jumped to get his attention. “Oh, my dear boy!”

Like a child, he rushed towards her, hands outstretched to hug her. No, he wouldn’t risk the warlocks knowing of the only woman who had ever mattered to him. 

“Look at you!” Mead exclaimed, holding him at arm's length with a frown, “You’re skin and bones— you’re wasting away. Don’t these people feed you?”

Michael’s grip tightened around her arms, his voice anxious and insistent. “I’m _fine_. Just tell me you took care of the problem.”

“The _problem_ is now a stack of overcooked country barbecue. They can bury him in a shoebox… if they can find him.”

Relief rolled off Michael in waves, shoulders finally losing a bit of tension which had plagued him for weeks. He was so close… so close to fulfilling his destiny.

“Good,” he sighed, nodding his head, “And what about—”

Mead smiled, “Already at the witch school. Are you sure your father—”

“The vision was clear,” Michael assured, straightening his robe. “These people are the only ones who can pose a threat to me. Once I become supreme, I can destroy them from within…”

He placed his hands on Mead’s shoulders, smiling. “… eliminate their whole _fucking_ coven. Then the road will be clear for me to do what I was born to do.”

“So, _stop_ worrying,” Mead said. The poor boy had dark circles under his eyes and was so tense he was practically buzzing. “Look how _easy_ it was for you to win their trust, to get into their school. They may be _wizards_ , but they’re not exactly _wizzes_. Everything is going beautifully.”

Michael sighed, pulling his eyes away from her and instead choosing to stare at the dirt at his feet. “I still have to pass the Seven Wonders.”

“You will _own_ the Seven Wonders… and then _all_ their covens and then the _world_.”

A smile flickered to Michael’s lips. He pulled the woman into a hug, allowing himself to relish this moment of peace. 

“What would I do without you?”

“Well, that’s something you’re never gonna’ have to worry about.”


	15. Seven Wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! A new chapter! Thank you all for your patience and support. Your comments make my day and I get super excited whenever I see them.  
> On to the story! Things are starting to get interesting at the coven.

Emily stood dutifully with her “sister witches” in the salon of the subterranean boy’s school, glancing here and there. She was desperately trying to read the room. Tension was high, but no one cared to explain why. Instead, she felt like a toddler watching her parents get a divorce without the needed schema to even understand marriage

God, she missed college. At least there, things were actually _explained_ to her. All Cordelia said was they were here to perform a ritual of the Seven Wonders. The name _sounded_ familiar, but other than that, she knew nothing.

What she did know was that the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men was the counterpart to Robichaux. Why they separated the coven based upon gender alone was… perplexing. Emily imagined prestige had something to do with it, a concept that made her roll her eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all. 

Emily had never been to California. One of her friends had moved there after high school, but they weren’t particularly close and the contact between them was now non-existent. It wasn’t as if she could reach out to the girl — duty being what it was and the fact that they were now in the _least_ hospitable place in the entire state. 

It was a pity, Emily hoped she would have at least seen the beach or LA. More to say she had than out of actual desire. 

She looked up as Myrtle shimmied beside them, keys in hand. Quietly, she bestowed them upon the group — first Zoe, then Queenie, and finally Madison and herself.

“We’ll be doubling up in the broom closets they call rooms,” Myrtle said, keeping her voice low. “Make sure you check the sheets before you lay down.”

She spared a pointed look at Madison, “and don’t go about wandering in the night. God knows what these little perverts will do.”

Madison stood with her arms across her chest, an unconvincing smile more a smirk than anything else. She leaned forward and flashed a grin. “Just because I get more than anyone else in this coven doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.”

Myrtle smiled in a way that made the blonde frown and turned back to the center of the room where Ariel and Cordelia were still talking logistics. The Seven Wonders required careful planning. With the stakes being life or death, there was no room for even the smallest of errors. They also had to assure that the greasy little weasels weren’t cheating them out of their throne. 

Madison leaned in towards Queenie, eyes flickering from the boy wonder.

“I have dibs,” she said.

A brow shot up Queenie’s forehead, “On what, bitch?”

“The _bed_.”

“Girl. I am _not_ sharing a room with you.”

Madison turned to Zoe. The brunette’s eyes were trained ahead, purposefully not meeting Madison’s eyes. The ex-movie star rolled her eyes which came to settle on Emily. She shook the key with a painted “6” on the fob.

“Looks like we’re bunk buddies.”

Emily spoke before she could think, “ _Joy_.”

“Whatever.”

Across the room, Michael watched Emily. He didn’t stare, but blue eyes frequently dashed to the girl. She stood stoically a few steps away from her sister witches with a stern expression on her face. As soon as she was brought into the light, however, it disappeared. Furrowed brows relaxed with the rest of her expression, only to return as it was but a moment before. 

Her companions seemed not to notice, treating her as a bumbling and anxious thing. No, this girl was but a cat waiting to pounce from the shadows.

Emily’s eyes dashed to his as she felt his stare. For a moment they locked eyes, but she quickly averted her gaze and focused on anything but him. He watched a moment longer.

Madison whispered something and she rolled her eyes, but a blush crawled up her neck. Her eyes flickered back to him, but he quickly turned his attention to the conversation at hand.

Days before, all Emily had been able to glean from her conversation with Cordelia was that this important ritual would determine who the next Supreme would be… whatever _that_ meant. 

For all the useless information the others had given her, they did not explain _what_ the Seven Wonders entailed. “You’ll see,” was the closest she had gotten to a response. 

Either way, Cordelia wanted her help. What she could help with, she wasn’t quite sure. The witches seemed to find pleasure in keeping things vague. 

Thus, long story short: Emily was in an underground all-boys boarding school doing occult shit straight out of a Steven King novel. 

Green eyes flickered to a nearby bookshelf, her eyes trailing over the titles instinctively. Most of them were old, books having that rough binding with wrinkled spines that only came from constant use and gold inlaid titles. There was one, however, with no name.

Looking about, she carefully made her way over to the shelf. It wasn’t far from where she was standing — a few feet at most. Gently, she eased the large weathered tome into her arms, balancing it upon her hip as if it were a child. 

It was a grimoire written in Latin. It was the one subject she had made traction in, reassuring her whenever she couldn’t conjure small objects to her hand or make butterflies out of roses. 

That being said, she was far from fluent. Some words and basic sentences popped out at her, but beyond that was incomprehensible. Emily wished she had her pile of references with her. It would at least give her _something_ to do while the _adults_ tackled the issues at hand.

“Finis venit,” she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowed as she read the handwritten note on the inside cover of the book, “ante initium.”

_ The end comes before the beginning? _

A burning sensation in her hands nearly made her drop the tome with what would no doubt have been a very loud, attention-drawing _thud_. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she eased the book back to its place. 

Her eyes darted around the room as she shuffled away from the bookcase. No one seemed to notice her faux pas, too engrossed in their own thoughts and tasks. Eventually, her gaze was drawn to the blonde boy who stood next to Ariel, Hawthorne’s headmaster. His hands were positioned behind his back, fist clenching as he continued to pay attention to the discussion before him.

Glancing back to her hands, she found a small circular burn mark around her right middle finger. Red irritation bloomed brightly upon her skin but quickly faded into nothing.

“God, I need a cigarette,” Madison whined beside her, crossing her arms and leaning back on the wall. Bored, her eyes trailed back to her new Sabrina. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Cordelia asked me to come.”

Madison scoffed, “What does she want you to do? Throw up on them?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Emily said with a sigh. The reaction gained her a small, cheeky smile from the blonde. The amusement didn’t last long.

“If you know you’re not a witch, why the hell do you even stay here?”

“Cordelia thinks I have potential.”

“Ha!” Madison said, “What a load of crock.”

Queenie rolled her eyes as she stood beside the two, Madison sandwiched between the human voodoo doll and the powerless newbie. 

“Can you stop being a bitch for, like, five seconds?” Queenie snapped at the blonde.

“Whatcha’ gonna’ do? Kill me?” 

“Don’t tempt me.”

A small smirk crawled onto Emily’s lips at the banter, but quickly vanished the second she felt Madison glance towards her. From across the room, Michael couldn’t help but be amused at the scene. He did his best to hide a smirk of his own, covering it with a hand in an attempt to save face.

Madison rolled her eyes and scoffed before shuffling away from the pair to put as much distance between them. Emily glanced at Queenie and they both snickered.

“Like I said,” Queenie said, “I got you, girl.”

“I’d hate to be on your bad side.”

“Damn straight.”

Emily pushed off the wall and stood a little straighter as she noticed Cordelia turn. The warlocks retreated to their side of the room save for Ariel and the curly-haired angel. Green eyes met blue and the two simply stared at each other for a long moment before diverting their attention back to the reigning supreme.

There was something about that boy… something Emily couldn’t quite place. 

“Today we take part in an ancient ritual used by our coven for generations,” Cordelia spoke, “The new must be ushered in and the old ushered out to maintain the strength of our coven.”

Finally, she turned to the boy-wonder, “Are you ready to take on this _momentous_ task.”

“I am.”

Emily jumped as a loud chorus of cheers erupted above them, boys stomping their feet and yelling as loud as they knew how. She forced her eyes back on her headmistress and tried to quiet her racing heart. 

Cordelia didn’t look pleased, everyone else too preoccupied with the noise to notice. It was a slight difference: the near imperceivable furrow of the brow and thinning of the lips.

Her eyes then trailed to the boy. He was smiling up at the crowd, basking in their adoration. It was a genuine smile — not the one he had shown when they first arrived.

The rowdy boys were quickly silenced with a well-aimed look of their headmaster. Emily could hear the shuffling of feet above her head as they skittered off into the halls, leaving the room feeling tense and lifeless.

“Like little roaches,” she heard Myrtle whisper to Zoe. The girl’s response was drowned out by the voice of their headmistress.

“Let the test of the Seven Wonders begin!”

* * *

The Seven Wonders was a test of seven magical talents… or at least that is what Emily observed. 

Telekinesis was the first wonder, an easy enough skill for those who could actually _use_ their magic. She felt a surge of jealousy at that thought. It was easy for Cordelia to say magical talent didn’t matter when she had more than Emily could hope to possess. 

Michael held up his hand and a book crossed the room as if it had a mind of its own. The grimoire was a heavy tome in her arms, but the boy made it look as light as a feather. 

He opened it to the first page, brows furrowing as he read the hand-scribed dedication. Closing the book, he looked to Ariel. The man was grinning ear to ear, clapping the boy on the back and praising him for a job well done. 

“This is but the first test,” Cordelia reminded, voice stern, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The fair-haired woman turned to Michael, “The next test is Concilium. Control the minds of someone in this room.”

That wording did nothing to ease the tension in Emily’s body. She quite liked being in control of her own thoughts and actions. The thought of someone being able to override her autonomy at will made her palms sweat.

Emily didn’t know what to expect until Madison and Zoe started dancing at random. Their faces betrayed their true feelings, Michael’s powers not strong enough to make the pair like one other. A small smile flickered to Emily’s lips at the frowns carved into their faces, but it quickly vanished when she felt the boy’s eyes on her.

They danced and danced and danced some more in a silent room. If not for the circumstances it may have been poetic. The strings of the puppet-master were far too visible, their bodies too stiff. It made her skin crawl. 

Just as the dance ended, Emily felt a sudden presence behind her followed by a feather-light tap on her shoulder. Her hair stood on end and a shiver ran up her spine. Hands instinctively curled into fists which swung back towards the sudden presence. 

The problem with instinct was that your body moved before your mind could decide to. Her fist was mere inches from his face when she finally realized what she was doing. Michael’s hand swung out to block the blow, fingers curling around her hand as he caught the punch mid-air. Emily’s heart was racing in her chest and the boy-wonder could feel her heartbeat through her hand. 

Power flickered through the air. Michael feeling like he was on the other end of an electrical shock. Gently, he let her hand go and it pulled back to her side as if his touch was fire.

“Careful,” He warned, a crooked smile curling at his lips. Emily’s eyes narrowed ever slightly. “You’ll end up giving someone a black eye.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed ever slightly, biting back a retort. If someone didn’t want a black eye, they shouldn’t sneak up on others. She was tempted to throw the other fist… but she doubted her headmistress would approve.

“You have conquered transmutation,” Cordelia noted, the pair turning back to the current supreme. Michael stepped back from her charge with the expression of a content cat. The Supreme’s frown was more prominent now, her eyes filled with annoyance she could no longer hide. “Now it is time for you to conquer the next task.”

She spared a glance at Ariel who stood beside her. He beamed at his student, looking to the woman beside him with an air of smug contempt. He was comically shorter than the woman, but her own expression did nothing to squash his silent gloating.

“One of your mentors has hidden something in this room. Find it using divination.”

Michael stepped around Emily, the girl taking a step away from him as he made his way towards the blonde woman. Stopping before her, he held out a hand palm-up. After a moment, Cordelia placed a dozen or so runes and bones into his hand. 

Turning on his heel and taking a few deliberate steps, Michael crouched in front of the fire. He tossed the objects onto the floor. Emily stared at them, trying to sense their meaning. She had read tarot cards before — accurate readings, too… or so her friends had said. Runes and bones, however, were another beast entirely.

_ The bookshelf.  _ Her own thought startled her as if she had heard another’s voice inside her head. She watched Michael’s eyes flicker up to one of the many bookshelves. 

Then he was gone, vanishing into thin air. Emily moved closer to the wall, hairs standing on end once more. The next thing she knew, the boy-wonder was standing next to his headmaster who jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“I believe this is yours,” Michael said to the man. Ariel grinned and laughed, patting the boy on the back as he took back his pocket watch.

With every task, Cordelia’s mood soured. Anyone outside of Robichaux wouldn’t have been able to tell the slight difference in her demeanor. Her posture straightened into a thin line, her eyes growing sharper and sharper until her gaze could cut stone.

Pyrokinesis and Vitalum Vitalis. Michael made them look easy. Flames roared when drops of his blood hit the wick of a candle. He made a mouse come back alive after snapping his neck.

The latter disturbed Emily more than the former. Emily realized she had never seen anything die before. She’d experienced death, naturally — old pets and family members passing to the other side. There was something about the sharp cracking of tiny bones accompanied by a shrill shriek that made all her hairs stand on end. Her body buzzed and she felt a momentary pressure on her forehead. 

Zoe turned at the sudden snap of power which echoed through the room. Emily stared at the sight before her, her eyes distant. It unnerved Zoe, the way the other girl stared. It felt like a black void had curled around Emily. 

The second the mouse was brought back to life, the spell which entranced the woman broke. Clarity came back to Emily’s eyes and she finally felt the presence of eyes upon her. Zoe averted her gaze, pretending she had seen nothing. 

“And so, we arrive at the final test,” Cordelia announced, “Descensum.”

Slowly, Michael’s hands came to rest behind his back. The more wonders he accomplished, the more contempt he held. Cordelia worried what his plans for the coven were. There was something about that boy that sat her on edge.

Her eyes flickered to Emily for but a moment, watching her whisper something to Queenie. Green eyes widened at the senior witch’s response.

Emily’s attention darted between the line of witches now standing before the fire. Queenie had chosen to stay with the younger witch to explain what was going on. 

“What’s Decensum?” Emily asked

“To prove you are the next supreme, you have to go to hell.”

“Hell?”

“I didn’t believe it at first, either.” Queenie said, “but, then again, I’m a human voodoo doll so anything is possible.”

Emily’s lips twisted as she took in the information, trying to decide how she felt about the concept of hell existing. She had never been a particularly religious person… agnostic at best. It was an existential conundrum — one existing thus implying the other did as well.

Closing off her thoughts, Emily forced herself to save the existentialism for _after_ their little trip. Hopefully, by then she would forget about it entirely.

Cordelia’s voice pulled them from their whispered conversation. Their headmistress’s voice rang loud and clear throughout the room, demanding attention.

“But today I am not asking you to _perform_ this wonder,” The Supreme continued, dragging her eyes back to Michael, “I am asking you to _conquer_ it.”

Emily’s eyes flickered back to Queenie as she shifted to her other foot, eyes narrowed at her supreme and brows furrowed. 

“What is she doing?” Queenie muttered. Emily pulled her eyes away from her companion and looked to the scene before her. The wizards shifted uncomfortably, lips pressing into thin lines. Emily’s eyes then settled back on Cordelia.

“I’d like you to retrieve my dear friend, Misty Day,” the blonde woman continued, “who lost her own battle with this very task.”

“That’s _impossible_!” one of the warlock’s snapped, an African American man — Behold — dressed to impress in the same black color they all donned. “Those who don’t return from Decensum are gone forever; _property_ of the underworld. 

“But even Orpheus was able to challenge Hades to bring back Eurydice,” Emily muttered. She felt eyes upon her, but when she looked to the boy-wonder his attention was solely on Cordelia.

Queenie spared the girl a glance, “What was that?” 

Emily slowly removed her eyes from Michael, “Nothing.”

““No _other_ Supreme’s been made to do this, _ever_. _This_ is not only unfair,” Another wizard — Baldwin — noted, angry eyes encased by thick-rimmed glasses, “this is _suicide_!”

Cordelia cut them off with ease, “Which is why I offer a compromise.”

The Supreme looked to Emily expectantly. The brunette glanced about the room, unsure of what was coming. Finally, after a good moment, she stepped out of the shadows. Cordelia offered her a reassuring smile as Emily came to stop by her side. She could feel the warlock’s eyes on her and she found herself focusing on the floor after meeting their gaze.

“Emily is a catalyst,” Cordelia explained to the warlocks. “One of the _strongest_ I have ever seen. While she has yet to show any magical ability, we have found that others of our kind can tap into her magic and use it to power their own.”

“This is sabotage!” Baldwin said, his pose reminding Emily of a hungry wolf. What was Cordelia thinking? She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want this. She didn’t— 

“Michael will need all the help he can get,” Cordelia reminded. 

All this while, Ariel had been quietly fuming. He should have known the witches would try and undermine the alpha. Jaw clenched and expression sour, he did his best to keep his cool.

“ _Enough_.” He said, head turning to his fellow warlocks before his gaze returned to the blonde witch, “Cordelia—”

Cordelia’s head cocked ever slightly to the side, waiting for him to speak.

“I need a word.” He finally concluded, words rushing past his lips. Cordelia simply nodded, and he led the way back into the shadow-filled halls of Hawthorne.

* * *

“You’re changing the rules!” Ariel exclaimed, voice rising and anger taking the forefront as soon as they were out of earshot. He paced back and forth in his office, trying to contain his rage. “Michael should _only_ have to descend as _you_ did!”

Cordelia stood calmly at the center of the room, poised with her hands resting in front of her. Her stillness was unsettling… more similar to a snake than a woman. It only served to anger Ariel more, waving his hands as he talked just to keep from imploding.

“You didn’t see what I saw,” the woman noted, voice stern and unwavering. Stubborn. Just like her mother. “Our world hangs in the balance. There is darkness coming and, if Michael is going to be the one who leads, us he needs to be able to withstand anything.”

Ariel stopped in his tracks.

“ _Bullshit_.”

Cordelia’s gaze was as cutting as a knife, her hushed tone betraying her surprise, “ _excuse_ me?”

“I _saw_ you drop. I know what’s _really_ happening here.” Ariel said, satisfied as Cordelia’s face fell into a frown. “You’re _fading_ , but you’re _afraid_ to let go.”

“And _you’ve_ hit a wall. _Grand Chancellor_ is as far as _you’re_ going to get,” Cordelia spat, “You and your _powers_ have reached their limit. Your _kingdom_ will only just be this hole in the ground.”

Ariel sputtered, unable to find a single retort. The woman was a scorpion and she was more than ready to sting him with her tail.

“Unless, of course,” She continued, “you use _Michael_ to extend your influence.”

“This is _pathetic —_ accusing _me_ to cover _your_ blatant attempt at his life. I won’t lose that kid over some sad, futile cling to power.”

“I’ll remind you that I am also risking one of _my own_ girls in this venture.”

“An inexperienced _whelp_!”

“Who has more untapped potential than you can ever dream to have!” Cordelia snapped, “You may insult me, but I will _not_ let you insult one of _my_ girls.”

“But you would send her to her death… What a supreme you are.”

“You actually believe I am trying to get them killed?”

Ariel took a step towards the woman, then another, “What I think, Cordelia, is that you are your mother’s daughter, who I knew fairly well. You may come with a _kinder_ facade, but deep down, you’re nothing more than a weak, frightened woman… _just_ like Fiona.”

He watched as Cordelia’s eyes betrayed her fear, her insecurity. Ariel had hit the pressure point, the Achilles heel. Cordelia’s sad eyes hardened, her own rage boiling in her belly.

“With a flick of my finger, I could crush your larynx and tear it from your throat.” Cordelia warned, “Do not think for one _second_ I am weak. I have _humored_ you men, and _coddled_ your fragile egos, but in no way does that mean you actually have a _say_.”

The woman took a step towards the man, forcing him to step back in turn. “I _outrank_ you. I can _destroy_ you. So, I suggest you fall in line because I am _still_ your Supreme.”

A creaking interrupted them, their eyes trailing to the door which now stood open. Michael stood, doors moving without his touch. His hands sat behind his back with a solemn and resolute expression. 

He locked gazes with Cordelia. There was something about his eyes that made her hair stand on end. He looked human, but his eyes seemed off and his presence made her stomach churn.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll get your friend back.”

* * *

The warlocks and witches had divided themselves in opposite corners of the room, leaving Emily to stand aimlessly in front of the fire. Their whispering was a roaring sea in her ears, an annoying buzz to a mosquito she couldn’t squash. She found her head quirking just to free her ears from the sound.

Sparing a glance at the warlocks, she was met with narrowed and sharp glances. Baldwin spared a look in her direction before turning back to Behold to whisper something. They turned their backs so she wouldn’t read their lips. 

The gaze of her fellow witches was less than reassuring, themselves whispering about the circumstances just as the warlocks. Zoe looked up and the younger witch quickly averted her gaze. Cordelia’s announcement blind-sided them all. Emily had always said she was going to go to hell… she just never expected it to come this soon.

“Cordelia’s sending her to her death!” She heard Madison hiss.

“Keep your voice down, bitch!” Queenie responded, slapping the girl’s arm before they also turned to keep Emily from hearing their conversation. 

With a sigh, the brunette turned her gaze back to the fire. Curling her arms around herself, she stared into the flickering flames. Fire had always comforted her, its warmth and snapping flames. She could stare at it for hours, trying to make meaning out of the chaos. 

_ Higher, _ she commanded in her mind, watching a single flame sputter higher before returning to its place. When she was small, she’d amuse herself for hours with the instances of coincidence, commanding waves to rise or wind to howl and pretending she had any control over it. 

It was the silence Emily noticed first. It pulled her from her mulling like ice water poured over her head. Slowly she turned to find Michael standing behind her. He watched her eyes dilate at his sudden presence before returning back to normal, allowing him to watch the colors of her hazel eyes switch ever slightly. The girl practically vibrated with anxiety.

“Cordelia says you are a catalyst.”

“Try a charger hit with lightning,” Emily noted with a scoff. Michael’s head turned slightly to the side, analyzing her response. The gusto behind her words quickly faded, hand moving to fret with her bracelet. “Or… at least, I’ve been told.”

Holding out a hand, he watched it as she regarded it. Eyes once wide in doe-like fear narrowed into calculating pinpricks. Blue eyes stared at her, judging which piece in the puzzle she was. She didn’t look him in the eyes for very long. 

“Shall we?” Michael asked.

Hesitantly, her hand rose from her side and her eyes flickered to his face. She was searching for something. Neither of them knew what, but whatever she saw was satisfactory enough for her to place her hand in his own.

Emily had never been one for physical contact. Her high-school years had been spent perfecting the art of walking down a crowded hall without brushing a single arm. Michael’s hand was warm, somewhere between natural and unnatural. It was as if the boy had a fever. 

Her hand, in contrast, was unnaturally cold. Her fingers were like ice against his flesh and twitched slightly at the contact. 

“Tell me what I need to do.”

“Just focus on my words,” He told her, true meaning lingering in the air.

_ And don’t mess up. _

* * *

Emily’s nose itched and her head buzzed, but she did her best to ignore it. It was as if there were a hundred bees in her body, all batting their wings at once. She had yet to get used to the infrequent thrumming of her bones.

The silence was oppressive, sounds of breathing and footsteps more akin to howling wing and roaring thunder. Cordelia knelt beside them, muttering spells as she slowly wound a ribbon to connect Emily’s hands with Michael’s. 

When she looked up to the warlocks, they were whispering one another. As before, they shielded their faces from view, glancing back at Cordelia every few seconds. 

Emily found herself speaking before she could think, the monotonous silence far too overwhelming, “So which underworld do you have to conquer?”

Michael’s voice was somewhere between bored and annoyed. 

“Does it really matter?”

“I mean… different religions have different tales — Greek, Christian, Egyptian — it changes based upon the culture.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that, dear,” Myrtle spoke with a small chuckle. She did not even try to mask her contempt of the boy. “it’s all semantics.”

“Until you have to have Anubis weigh your heart,” Emily muttered to herself. A smile flickered to Michael’s face and left just as quickly.

The boy-wonder laid on the floor, his head in Emily’s lap. Her hands were placed on his chest where his arms crossed like he was buried in a casket. His golden hair tickled her arm. She could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to look at him. 

What did Cordelia expect her to do? Even if she was a catalyst, she couldn’t control that power. Emily’s hands felt clammy in boy-wonder’s. Suddenly the ribbon felt itchy and his hands too warm.

Apparently, the binding was supposed to channel her magic into his own. Emily just thought it made her look stupid. Cordelia gave her a reassuring smile as she finished tying off the brunette’s right hand. Touching the girl’s cheek, the Supreme pretended Emily’s jaw wasn’t tense beneath her fingers.

The coven gathered, standing around the pair. They were like giants, looming over them. Emily was less than pleased about having someone at her back. Michael felt her fingers twitch against his own.

“Ready?” Michael asked the girl, forcing her to finally meet her gaze. Emily nodded and his eyes looked past her and towards the ceiling.

“Repeat after me,” He told her, “and focus on the words.”

“Got it,” Emily said, voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“ _Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum_ ,” He began to chant, “ _ut salutaret inferi_.”

“ _Dedice me in tenebris_ ,” she repeated, doing her best to put weight behind every word, “ _vita ad extremum…_ ”

“ _Decensum_.” They spoke in unison. 

Myrtle stood by Cordelia, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as the blonde fretted at her necklace. Emily would alright, she reasoned. The transfer of power did not mean she would be lost to the underworld forever. 

The rest of the witches looked towards their fellow sisters. Eyes shifted between their companions and the girl on the floor, gaging their reaction to what was occurring before them.

“ _Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum_ ,” Emily continued to mutter, Michael’s voice already falling silent as he descended. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, hands squeezing the boy’s. “ _ut salutaret—_ ”

Her breath left her like a sigh. With a dull _thump_ , Emily fell limp to the floor. Her body curled around Michael’s head; hands still outstretched towards his. The rope that bound them together burned until it was ash. Their hands were still connected, holding onto each other as if their lives depended upon it. 

Zoe lurched forward instinctively, a spell already on her lips. Cordelia’s hand shot out, her arm keeping the other woman from taking another step. 

“No,” she said, voice betraying her concern, “we must not interfere.”

“She’s not ready for this!” Madison said, rounding the group so Cordelia was forced to look her in the eye. The ex-movie star gestured towards the sleeping girl. “She can’t even make a flower change colors and you expect her to find her way out of _hell_?”

Cordelia was less than impressed with her student’s reaction.

“You underestimate her power.”

“And what would that be?” Ariel demanded, voice raised and hands clenched to fists at his sides. The Supreme could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face. 

Slowly, Cordelia turned to regard him.

“Emily’s power is entangled between this dimensions and the next,” she said, trying to convey her urgency with every word. It was getting hard to keep her anger from overflowing. “A rare gift. There is _no one_ more suited to this task than her.”

Brown eyes flickered to the slumbering girl, her body lacking its previous tensions. It was the calmest Cordelia had ever seen her. A small, proud smile claiming her lips.

“When she is finally able to pull that power into the waking world,” Cordelia noted, eyes boring into Ariel’s like a knife, “she will be a force to be reckoned with.”


	16. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you again for being so patient. Between school, work, and life, it has been super hard to find to just sit and write to my heart's content. Finals season is coming up soon, but after that, I have a good few months break for the holidays.   
> If you want more updates (or want to see my random drawings for this fic) please feel free to follow me on Tumblr! have the same user-name and everything :)  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Emily’s fingers twitched at the feeling of mist upon her skin, prickling dampness that made her hair stand on end. The air was stagnant save for that mist, still enough to make her feel as if she were encased in amber. Her eyes felt heavy as led, fluttering open before being pulled closed against her will. It was a familiar battle. Clawing her way out of dreams was all too frequent a struggle. 

When her eyes finally opened, everything around her looked hollow. Mist was mist no matter its form, she surmised. It existed and did not exist – solid as stone and as tangible as water. Such was the nature of dreams.

Above her, a cave ceiling stood, stalactites jutting from the ceiling like teeth in a gaping maw. From the roaring rapids behind her, stones jutted from the water in a similar fashion. Somehow, she knew it was River Styx. She didn’t know how she knew… it was as if the knowledge had always been there. 

The massive tunnel went on for miles left and right. Wooden beams were placed along the cave walls, reminiscent of what you would see in a mining cave. No humans were there to have constructed them – another fact that existed without reason in her mind. They simply came into existence. Emily took a moment to absorb these facts, whispers dashing past her ears like a gentle breeze. 

In front of her was where the true wonder began. She had seen this place before, known it as well as she knew the back of her hand. It was ancient, predating the Greeks, the Egyptians, and even the Mesopotamians. 

A pressure that had been on her chest throughout her life lifted. Emily could finally breathe. Dreams had offered momentary relief, but this? _This_ was freedom. She took the first step forward, adjusting to the sensation of feeling and not feeling while resisting the urge to run towards the door she knew waited for her ahead. 

Grey marble jutted out of the otherwise brown and bleak rock, a staircase with intricately carved designs inlaid with silver. The first staircase was followed by a large equally-decorated platform and another short set of stairs. Beyond that sat a door all too familiar, engraved with snakes and sigils. It stood taller than any decent-sized house, making her small and insignificant in comparison. Emily found that she didn’t mind the feeling that thought evoked. 

The blonde-haired figure standing before it was also familiar, making Emily halt in her steps. Michael peered at the door before him, pushing on it to no avail. His lips twisted in annoyance. The least his father could do was make this task _easy_.

If this were a dream, it was the most tangible one Emily had ever experienced. She followed him up the stairs, feeling the ground buzz beneath her feet. The energy of this place was rising from the floor, traveling up her legs like roots drinking water and centering itself on her heart. 

Michael was thrown off by the sudden presence beside him, more surprised when he turned to see Emily. He had stared at the door for a good five minutes before she appeared. He had pushed it, tried to use his magic, and done everything within his ability to make it move. Though the structure appeared as a door, it lacked any definition. More a tomb than an entryway. 

She did not acknowledge his presence, eyes distant but all-seeing. Slowly, she placed a hand on the stone. Eyes narrowing, she regarded the structure with scrutiny — focusing in on the bumpy and damp feeling of it under her fingers. 

“I know this place,” Emily murmured.

“I think _most_ people know this place… it being _hell_ and all.”

The woman either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to respond. 

“I had a dream,” she said, voice distant and light as her hands fell back to her sides. The pieces were coming into place. “A man with golden hair. I called out to him… called him…”

Michael’s expression alone could have cut through the door. Emily ceased her rambling as she looked into his eyes, sensing his annoyance and quickly looking back to the door. 

“You don’t open it,” She said, placing her right hand on it once more, “You go through it.”

Why couldn’t things be to the point with these people — witches and wizards alike? It was always cryptic statements that procured more questions than answers. Michael was about to make some stabbing retort at the girl when her hand started pushing through the door, eyes closed and brows knitted together. 

It felt like walking through a bubble, a cooling sensation around her arm where it met the stone. Mist danced upon her fingers which had reached through it, the world beyond nothing but a cloud of uncertainty. It had yet to form, a living organism recognizing a new presence and adapting to it. It looked like she was sinking into quicksand, body pushing through until the rock consumed her arm, and then her torso, and then her legs. 

Then… she was gone. 

Michael regarded the whole thing with calculated interest, head quirking to the side as the last of her went through. The stone looked like stone and it remained cool and hard beneath his fingers. Pulling away, he regarded his palm with interest for but a moment, brows furrowed. 

He didn’t know whether to be impressed or irritated at the girl’s ease in this realm. Either way, he had a job to complete.

Placing his own hands on the spot the brunette once stood, all he felt beneath his palms was solid stone. Slowly, he applied more force. All that accomplished was making his hands red from where the rough surface pushed into his skin. 

Closing his eyes, Michael focused on the door, pictured it transforming into mist. When he opened them, he was in a long hallway covered in mirrors, the pale-yellow light bouncing down the hall and scattering their reflections into a thousand separate pieces. Mahogany doors broke up the mirrors, making them more tolerable to deal with. Michael flinched as he caught sight of hazel eyes reflected in the glassy surface.

Emily stood in the center of the hall, patiently waiting for him, eyes fixed to the spot he emerged. Seeing that she was not bothered by the reflected eyes staring back at them, Michael did his best to hide his own anxiety. If the warlocks taught him anything, it was how to hide insecurities under a pompous mask.

Something about her eyes unnerved him. She looked the same as she had before the fire, but there was a glassy sheen to the hazel color. Emily wasn’t looking at him, she was looking past him… or into him. He didn’t know which was more unnerving.

“You have dreams?” He finally asked, straightening his jacket and turning his attention away from the walls.

“I wrote in my journal that the name I called out was Lucifer,” she said, “but the real name was Michael… it didn’t make sense so I thought I remembered it wrong.”

The Anti-Christ froze but quickly recovered his senses. Perhaps she should be lost to the underworld forever… she did seem to thrive. Cordelia knew there was a chance of death, after all. Emily’s disappearance would cause tension, but wouldn’t raise too many brows.

“Any other tricks up your sleeve?” he asked.

“That’s where the dream cut out.”

Michael hummed, looking around before speaking, “you have quite the memory.”

Emily either did not catch the sarcasm or did not care. 

“Things are easier to remember in dreams,” she said, breaking his gaze and finally turning to peer at her surroundings, “and harder to ignore.”

Before Michael could respond, she spoke again.

“So… this is hell.” 

He did his best to suppress a scoff, “Let me guess: never thought you’d come here?”

“Just expected to see more people.”

“Tortured in a pit of fire and brimstone for all eternity?”

“No…” she said, her voice fading a bit as she took a few steps forward, “this makes more sense, actually.”

Emily turned back to Michael, moving to the side of the hall. “It’s your trial. I’ll follow your lead.”

With a nod, the boy moved in front of her. She followed obediently. Michael still found himself looking back often, just enough to see her out of the side of his eye. Her presence seemed to flicker in and out. At times he’d turn and it felt as if nothingness was at his back, reminding him vaguely of the Greek story of Euridice. As with Orpheus, it wasn’t in Michael’s best interest to lose the girl. His father had to have a reason for her to be there, after all. 

The hallway went on for eternity, with no adjacent halls to turn down. Emily began to feel as if she might go mad. The thought of being trapped in such a place, with no windows and no sky, made her skin crawl. She crossed her arms to rid herself of the feeling, scratching them for good measure.

Time wasn’t linear in places such as hell, places that existed while simultaneously not existing. At times, it felt like they had been walking for days, then moments, then eons, then seconds. She wondered how much time was passing above-ground. 

How did she get there, anyway? How could things feel real one moment, then dreams the next? This was more vivid than her usual dreams… then again, all dreams felt vivid until you awoke.

Emily stopped in her tracks as the lights around them flickered, her hand reaching out for Michael’s back. She stared up at the ceiling. The orange hues of light in the hall took on a shade of muted purple. It was dark enough to be afraid but light enough for her to see the shadowy forms flickering here and there. 

Michael watched her, unsure what she was staring at with such intensity. Nothing had changed. The hallway still stretched on for eternity and the lights still blazed steadily. 

“Visions,” she said, noting his expression before looking back the way they came. He could feel a slight tremble to her hand before she let go of his blazer. “I’m remembering.”

“Remembering?”

Figures began seeping from the walls, dark masses without any discernible features. Mist-like goo rolled off them, thick globs floating towards the floor before disappearing. They were looking at her. She could feel their eyes even if she couldn’t see them.

The words left her before she could even think, “purgatory.”

Michael watched her for a moment, the way her arms curled to her chest as she looked back down the hall. Pupils dilated and eyes dashing here and there, he could feel her magic flickering in the air around them. Emily took a step back until her back brushed against him, an unconscious action she didn’t even seem to notice.

Gently, he reached out for her hand, ignoring the way she jumped against his touch. She offered a thankful smile and accepted the gesture. 

“Just keep walking,” He said, turning around and trying to ignore the way she unnerved him. The hairs rising on the back of his neck was an unfamiliar feeling. The way she spoke and acted reminded her of an oracle.

He wondered which Greek hero he was in her tale.

They walked hand in hand as they continued onwards. Michael was feeling out for Misty Day, but her energy had been diluted after being in the afterlife so long. New souls had a particular feel to them. More like Emily, burning bright with blood that still strummed through her veins. 

At some point, her visions must have stopped. Her fingers slipped from his and they continued to press onward. He had forgotten they were holding hands until the cold began to sting at his palms. Emily’s eyes on his back, Michael was unsure whether to be relieved at the presence of his companion or unnerved. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he rested them behind his back and continued walking.

* * *

Emily stood to the side as Michael stood before the door. How he could tell the difference between them, she would never know. The only choice she had was to trust his judgment. 

He spared her a glance before he waved a hand. The familiar click of a lock echoed down the hall before the door swung inward. Michael’s hands rested behind his back once more before he took a step inside.

Emily wondered if she should stay in the hall. While she didn’t want to interfere with the trial, the silence and never-ending monotony of the rows and rows of doors made her bones buzz in her body. Being alone in this place was more frightening than whatever horrors lied before them. If she was to be lost to hell forever, she didn’t want to be alone.

Catching the door before it slammed shut, the witch wormed her way inside. Stumbling over her own feet, she came to a stop behind boy-wonder. He spared her a glance but quickly turned his attention back towards the scene ahead.

The smell of bleach and formaldehyde were the first thing to assault her senses. Instinctively, she covered her nose, but it did nothing to ease the stink. That smell was far too familiar. Memories of dead sharks, frogs, and sheep’s brains were brought back into the forefront of her mind — back when Emily was still ahead enough to be considered “gifted” in the public elementary schools of the south.

Sobbing was the next thing she distinguished, finally looking up to see the rows of black-topped lab tables. The children were all small in comparison to the blonde-haired woman that sat at the center of the room, draped in a black rose-embroidered shawl. It wasn’t hard to realize she was staring at Misty Day.

Some of the children stared at the new pair with unblinking eyes that were detached from the scene before them. They were so small, smaller than she remembered being at eleven years old. Dressed in polo shirts and khaki shorts, she felt she was at a Mormon meet-n-greet back home in the suburbs of Georgia. 

Then, the sobbing stopped. 

“Mr. Kingery,” An obnoxious southern-twanged voice spoke, “She did it again!”

Emily watched as little tiny heads turned robotically towards Misty once more. A middle-aged man with a receding, gray hairline stormed towards the table. The frown etched in his face made her hair stand on end. 

Michael only spared the brunette woman a glance as she came to stand beside him, her shoulder slightly behind his own. Self-preservation — he could respect that.

“No, No,” Misty begged, voice wobbling with tears, “I don’t want to kill a living thing, please!” 

A loud sobbing filled the room once more, Misty howling in pain. Emily watched as the teacher forced a scalpel in her hand, the frog screaming in pain as the knife pierced its chest. All she could do was stare in horror.

Her heart lifted in her chest; body weightless as if she were falling. The feeling was gone as quickly as it came as the scene reset itself once more. 

“Mr. Kingery!” The voice came again.

Michael felt a pressure on his arm, turning to see Emily clinging to him. Her eyes were wide in horror, glossy sheen nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he had forgotten she wasn’t a figment of his mind — as if she had been but a ghost until this moment.

Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper, hands falling back to her sides, “Make it stop,” 

Michael’s movements were always calculated, she realized. Steps were taken as if he were following a dance and he held things as if they would break under his touch. Plucking a scalpel from one of the tables, he regarded it for a moment.

The blade went through the teacher like butter. Entering through the back, it stabbed through until blood began to ooze from the man’s chest. It took a moment for the teacher to realize what happened, looking down at his belly where his organs began seeping from his belly.

His hands floated above his abdomen, a squelching sound now emitting from him as his intestines slipped from the confines of his skin. Blood dripped to the floor, sounding more like a faucet leak than… well… she didn’t really _know_ what blood sounded like. Emily’s hand reflexively rested on her churning stomach.

The teacher fell to the floor, unconscious or dead. Michael’s hands were covered in blood and all Misty could do was stare at him with wide-eyed wonder. Even the boy-wonder seemed surprised at his strength, the expression falling back into an expressionless mask. 

Misty looked upon them both with tear-filled eyes, her shoulders falling slack as she felt relief after ages of torment. She was barely able to get her voice above a whisper, “Are you here to save me?”

Emily’s mind was racing, trying desperately to comprehend the incomprehensible. How could a man be dead if he was already in hell? Was he even a man at all? If he was, was his hell paired with that of Misty Day?

Her existential crisis didn’t last for long. Movement danced in the corner of her eyes — the type you’d see all the time and turn to find nothing.Emily turned her head to see a small girl, sneaking her way towards the boy-wonder.

“Michael!” the brunette exclaimed. It wasn’t her sudden cry that made the boy-wonder flinch, but the roaring flames that erupted from the gas lines. He jumped as a line of fire came between himself and the tiny figure that had been standing behind him, locking himself and Misty away from any harm. 

Misty instinctively grabbed his arm, but let it go just as quickly. He did not like the expression she wore, looking into his soul like Emily had moments ago outside the classroom from hell.

The tiny gremlin of a girl turned her eyes on Emily, hunched back and foaming mouth reminding them all that these creatures were anything but human. The growl that left her small frame was deep and demonic. She barked at the brunette witch like a dog before charging. 

With a wave of Emily’s hand, the girl was thrown back into one of the flames. She was reduced to ash, the smell of sulfur simmering in the air.

Another shadow darted in the corner of Emily’s eyes, dragging her back to where Michael and Misty stood. The pair watched her with wide-eyes, unaware that, above them, another child stood on the countertops. He growled and gurgled like the other girl; eyes fixed on Misty.

Michael watched as Emily’s hand shot out, muscles tensing and poking out of her hand from the strain. When he looked behind himself and Misty, the demon boy was clawing at his neck. His gaze traveled back to Emily, her nostrils flaring as she pushed back against the demon. It was fighting back, her posture implied as such… but more impressive than that was that, in this fight, Emily seemed to be _winning._

Cordelia was right — the girl had untampered power in her veins. Perhaps this is what his father intended. 

Then, Emily was thrown back. He watched her slam into the nearest wall like a rag-doll in the hands of an angry toddler. Michael braced himself for an attack, turning to face the demon boy with scalpel in hand. 

But the demon boy hadn’t moved. He stared forward with his milky white eyes, arms limp at his sides. When Michael looked around the classroom, he realized all the students had the same trance-like appearance. 

Emily muttered curses as she pulled herself into a sitting position, grumbles dying in her throat as she witnessed the scene around her. A hand rested on her shoulder, her own going out to strike until she recognized Misty kneeling at her side.

“What’s goin’ on?” the blonde witch asked, eyes darting between Emily, Michael, and the students, “Is this supposed to happen?”

“… I have no idea.”

Then, in unison, the students threw back their heads. Mouths agape and stretched far wider than any mouth should, they gazed up at the sky.

“What are they—” Emily spoke, cut off by a booming voice.

_ “She is my gift to you,” _ it said, a thousand tongues in a thousand voices speaking at once, _“and will be your greatest asset.”_

“What does that—” Emily went to ask Misty but found the woman was no longer at her side. Her eyes dashed to where Michael had been standing. He too was absent from the room. 

“No, no,” Emily muttered, jumping to her feet and turning in circles. Her heart raced and pounded in her ears. She dashed to the door, only to find it locked. The brunette yanked at it with both her hands, only succeeding in making the door rattle in its place. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Emily gasped as the floor gave way beneath her, her heart leaping into her chest. A black void consumed her. She could not tell if she was falling or simply weightless in this nothingness. 

Heart continuing to thrum in her chest, threatening to burst from fear, Emily attempted to swing outward. She couldn’t feel her own hands, couldn’t see anything but this consuming nothingness. Desperately, she tried to reach for her face but sobbed as she felt nothing beneath her fingertips. Her head started to become fuzzy, her thoughts like water through her fingers. 

“Let me out!” She screamed, scared that her voice too would soon give way to nothing, “I can’t think! I can’t see!”

“You made a deal,” a deep voice said, smooth but crackling like a fire. In the shadows, a darker one moved, she barely made out the vision of a white skull painted upon dark skin, a pair of red eyes the only sign of light in this damned darkness. “Really, mambo, you were better off returnin’ back to the other realm.”

“Then—” Emily said. She recalled a dream — nothingness… then stars. A council asked her to make a choice. All she wanted was to go back home…

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You gave your answer none the less,” the voice said, a _tut-tut_ hissing out from the darkness, “my master put good weight in your words.”

“It was a dream!”

The voice chuckled, “you’ve always known they were more than that.”

* * *

Michael awoke with a gasp, the words of his father still ringing in his ear. His heart raced and the world spun around him, his soul trying to orientate itself in his body once more. 

The observing witches and warlocks rose to their feet, coming to convene around him. Michael could still feel Emily’s hand in his own, cold and still. The red ribbon was gone, but he could still feel it tied around his wrists and up his forearm. It was as if his very veins had been connected to the witch and for a moment it felt as though his entire existence was dependent on her own.

“Well, that’s that,” Madison Montgomery spoke from above him, crossing her arms and sparing a pointed look at the warlocks that stood on the other side of Michael. She turned back to her fellow witches with an air of condescension. “C’est la vie.”

“This was not a fair test!” Ariel protested. Michael did not have to look at the grand chancellor to know his jaw was clenched and his nostrils flaring. 

Cordelia’s voice was bored as she spoke, “What happened?”

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he looked up to the current supreme. 

“Where’s Misty?” Cordelia pressed, not patient enough to wait for his reply to her first question. Michael wanted to snap at her to get a moment of peace, but he knew it was better to bite his tongue. He was to be the next supreme, after all.

“Isn’t it obvious, dear,” Myrtle sighed, not even bothering to look down at the boy-wonder that looked upon her with disgusted awe, “She’s right where she’s been the last--”

Eyes rolling into the back of his head and hands laying palms up, Michael conjured the last bit of energy he had to pull Misty from the realm of the dead. Ash and smoke rose from the floorboards, shifting into the shape of a woman. Flesh unfurled from the mass, draping itself over the newly formed body of Misty Day.

Cordelia gasped, hands trembling above the body as she fell to her knees. Her hands when to the other woman’s face, fingers smoothing over Misty’s cheeks as if to wake her from a blissful dream. “Misty. Misty.”

Michael stumbled to his feet, Professor Pennypacker helping him into Behold’s arms. The feeling had yet to return to Michael’s legs, forcing him to hobble to the nearest table to regain his senses. 

“My dearest Misty,” Cordelia cried, a smile flickering to her lips as Misty’s eyes slowly blinked open. Breath left the once-dead woman’s lungs in sputtering gasps, drawn in just as harshly until her body remembered the motions. There had been no need for breathing in hell. Like a dream, you simply assumed you were doing so.

Hot tears dripped down Cordelia’s cheeks as Misty stared at her in wonder, the Supreme’s arms curling around the woman and pulling her towards her. Cordelia never wanted to let go lest this moment be a fleeting dream.

Misty stared at everything in wonder. The shocked expression of Myrtle, the crying Zoe, beaming Queenie, and disinterested Madison. They were all so beautiful. Everything was so beautiful.

“Am I…?” She asked Cordelia.

“Yes!” The woman said, laughing in glee as she nodded vigorously. “You’re back! You’re safe!”

“… back from perdition,” Myrtle muttered, still unable to comprehend the scene unfolding before her.

Michael watched them with disinterest. He had done what was required, now the pieces must fall into place. Waving off his fellow warlocks, blue eyes flickered to a mass behind the pair, still sleeping.

Myrtle caught his gaze, following it to Emily’s unconscious form. Whatever warming glee she had felt from the resurrection of Misty quickly to ice in her veins.

“Delia,” She gasped, swatting at the air beside the Supreme, “Delia, she’s not waking up!”

Cordelia froze momentarily before turning back to her newest charge.

“No, no, no,” the woman cried, relief turning back to grief. She scrambled towards the girl, pulling Emily into her lap. Hands trembled over the girl’s pale face, brushing the hair from her closed eyes. Cordelia wanted to see those eyes. She _needed_ to see those eyes. She could not lose another girl. “No, no. You have to come back! You have to wake up!”

Michael regarded the scene, equally worried. He willed her to wake up, to take one breath and then another. Why would his father give him a gift only to take it away? If Emily was a key to his ascension, losing her could jeopardize—

He watched as her fingers twitched, then her shoulder. Then, Emily shot up.

“NO!” She screamed, louder than any of them had heard her speak before. Cordelia let out a cry of relief and went to pull her closer, but Emily shoved her back with another strangled cry. Her eyes were wide with horror, darting here and there and unable to focus on a single thing. Cordelia tried to reach for her again but was swatted away. Michael could feel the same magic from hell surging in the air, but fizzling out just as quickly. 

Misty shoved herself between the two women, grasping Emily by the face and forcing her to look the revived witch in the eye.

“It’s alright. You saved me.” She whispered, “We’re back. _You’re_ back.”

“Was that supposed to happen?” Emily asked, voice hardly louder than a whisper. The adrenaline wore off and made her body shake, she clenched her hands into fists to make it stop.

“Most certainly not,” Ariel spoke before Misty could ask for clarification. His eyes burned into Cordelia. “What kind of sabotage—”

“I would not risk the life of one of my girls for some petty stab at power!” Cordelia hissed. Her anger ebbing as she turned back to her girls.

“Can you stand?” She asked the pair. Misty nodded, easing Emily to her feet. The brunette closed her eyes as the world began to tilt, but quickly righted herself. 

“I’m okay,” Misty reassured her mentor, Cordelia smiling and patting on her cheek before turning to Emily. The girl nodded.

Emily stepped back as Misty turned to her friends. Queenie rushed forward to hug her, the others following suit with tear-filled eyes. Michael watched the newest member of their coven pulled herself away back into the shadows, forgotten. Hazel eyes glanced to her hands before squeezing them shut, arms curling into her body.

Hell… Emily had just been to hell. She came back from hell. She had seen demons. Asleep, the reality of the situation had been easier to comprehend. Now, it was hard to process it as anything more than a dream.

“Cordelia!” Myrtle gasped, pulling Emily from her thoughts. Blood oozed from her headmistress’s nose; her hand covered in the substance. Misty rushed to her side; eyes wide in fear as she rested her hands upon Cordelia’s arm.

“Oh, my god,” Cordelia muttered.

“W-What’s happening?” Queenie stuttered, looking to Myrtle for answers. The red-haired woman did little to ease her concern, rushing to Cordelia’s side as the woman began to waver.

“What always happens when a new Supreme rises,” Ariel said.

Behold nodded at his Chancellor, finishing the statement for him, “The old one fades away.”

Ariel was quick to circle the wounded animal, going in for the final blow, “We demand what’s ours.”

“You are a pathetic, pompous ass!” Myrtle snarled, curled over Cordelia like a mother over its cub.

Emily regarded the scene with confusion, eyes flickering between the two sides. Michael had passed the test. What more was there to argue? What did it have to do with Cordelia’s bloody nose?

“I did everything you asked,” the boy-wonder reminded the women, his back straight and eyes unwavering. Eyes flickered towards him, his tone and posture commanding respect. “I descended into hell and I did what _you_ couldn’t. _I_ brought her back.

Emily watched the lips of her fellow witches twitch and twist into frowns and snarls. She did not understand their animosity. Had they expected him to fail? Had they hoped _she_ would fail?

“I passed the seven wonders,” Michael concluded, head turning to the side as he regarded Cordelia. The woman could barely stand on her own, leaning on Myrtle and Misty whose muscles strained to hold the woman up. “…Unless you want to add _another_ one.”

“No,” Cordelia sighed, shaking her head with knitted brows and tear-filled eyes. “No.”

The pair stood in silence for a moment, eyes locked in a battle of wills. Michael waited. He had patience.

“There can be no doubt,” Cordelia finally continued, lips curling in disgust at the words leaving her mouth. “You are the next Supreme.”

The final word left the woman with her breath, crumpling to a heap on the floor. Misty gasped as she was forced down with the woman, doing her best to break Cordelia’s fall. Emily pushed off the wall she had been leaning on, watching Misty stare at the boy wonder who could not help the smile from his face. 

Michael had won.

* * *

Emily had somehow found her way towards Michael, standing next to him between the two sides of witches and warlocks. Once again, the Warlocks took to one side of the fire and the witches the other. Now and again, one of the men would glance back at the younger women. They did nothing to hide their contempt and smug expressions. The witches paid the men no mind, giggling and speaking with Misty Day. They’d all reach out to touch the woman now and again if only to convince themselves that she was there.

Cordelia had been lifted onto the nearest couch, Myrtle staying behind while the rest of them lingered in the hall. They stood around a large bonfire. The students of Hawthorne had long since gone to bed, leaving the halls to be filled with the crackling fire and quiet murmurings of their little group.

Michael and herself stood in silence, staring at the roaring fire. Emily glanced at him now and again, doing her best to ignore the comfortable silence. Now of all times, she could not stand the silence.

The warlock watched her in turn, the way her brows furrowed as she stared into the fire which reflected itself in her eyes. Michael was busy in his own thoughts, contemplating his father’s plans. One battle won, but the rest of the war was still before him.

When he glanced to the girl beside him, her eyes looked distant. It was as if she was trapped in hell once more, glazed eyes peering past the physical and into the core of what surrounded her. The fire crackled, reaching higher as a log broke in half and sent embers flying. When his gaze returned to Emily, he saw a trail of red run from her nose.

She flinched as a white handkerchief was held out to her. When Emily looked at Michael, he simply gave her a pointed look before turning back to the fire. Hand instinctively going to her nose, she found it was bleeding. Face flushing with warmth, she took the handkerchief with a quiet thanks.

“That’s something I’ve never experienced before,” Emily noted awkwardly once the blood had stopped flowing. 

“Hell?”

“A nosebleed.”

A small smile curled to Michael’s lips and he let out a short airy laugh. 

“So… that was hell.”

“Not what you expected?”

“I don’t _really_ know _what_ I was expecting.”

Michael stared at her for a moment, searching her face. “You’re afraid.”

She chuckled, looking at him pointedly. “It’s _hell_.”

“Don’t worry,” Michael reassured, “They say the devil is a fallen angel. I’m sure he’ll have some mercy.”

“Don’t talk to me about the devil right now,” Emily said with a sigh, “I thought the existence of magic was going to make me insane. Contemplating religion might push me over the edge.”

Michael laughed at that, shaking his head. It was hard to remember an outsider’s view on these matters. Occultism was all too familiar to the boy-wonder — from ghosts to the devil himself.

They stared at the others for a good while, the warlocks plotting and the witches basking in their perceived success. 

“Stupid question,” Emily finally spoke, dragging her eyes back to Michael, “What’s a supreme?”

Michael laughed. She shrugged as he rose a brow and his lips curled into a confuddled expression. Cordelia sent that girl to hell when she didn’t even know—

“The supreme is the most powerful magic wielder of their time, tasked with guiding and protecting their brethren throughout their life.”

“Why does Cordelia have to die?”

“We can’t all be Supremes.”

“So, it’s kind of like Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” she noted, brows furrowing as she put the puzzle pieces together, “one dies and another is born.”

“To a degree.”

“So, what will be your first business as Supreme? Preparing any radical change?”

Michael did his best to subvert the question. If Emily noted, she didn’t mention it. “The fact that I’m a man may be radical enough for now, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” Emily said, realization donning, “I forgot about that. Usually, it’s the opposite.”

She understood the hostility of the witches now. They had one section of the world where they could be the reigning force… now that was gone too. Emily would be lying if she said the concept didn’t bother her. Still… it wasn’t as if it was Michael’s fault. Fate was fate, she supposed — depressing as it was.

“But I have a few ideas,” Michael reassured, watching the emotions pass on her face. 

“Such as?”

They were interrupted by the sound of the sliding door to the salon, Myrtle’s signature red hair taking on an orange tint in the light of the fire.

“She’s awake.”

* * *

It felt like an eternity that they waited outside that door. Misty and Myrtle had gone in first, talking for what seemed like an eternity. All Emily could make out were the muffled lilting sounds of indiscernible words spoken back and forth. The wizards had gone away, offering them some level of privacy. 

So, Emily stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot and counting the minutes passing by. The air was so thick with tension that one could cut it with a knife. Hazel eyes flickered between the faces of her sister witches, waiting for someone to say something. They were all so intent on not meeting the others’ eyes.

Finally, Madison looked down the hall, rolled her eyes, and scoffed, “I don’t understand why we have to wait here.” 

“Cordelia fell,” Zoe snapped, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the nearest wall.

“It’s not like she’s _dead_.”

“…yet,” Queenie said. Madison opened her mouth to retort but was silenced by the creaking of the door.

Zoe rushed to Cordelia’s side, offering an arm to lean upon, but the Supreme refused with a short gesture and a reassuring smile. Her brown eyes landed on Emily, pulling the girl towards her in a hug before she could protest. As usual, Emily was tense under her touch. Her arms did not move to return the affection, hovering in the air like they were held up by puppet strings. “Miss Cordelia—”

“I thought I lost you,” the woman admitted. Emily fought the urge to pull away as a hand came to rest on her cheek. She could not understand the woman’s fascination with the gesture but had been unable to find a polite way to tell her to stop. 

“I had to find my way back,” Emily replied. Ever since she had woken, she had prepared her questions meticulously word by word — the voice, the darkness. Her gut churned in warning and she listened to it, resigning herself to silence. “Didn’t exactly have a map.”

Cordelia giggled a bit at that, bringing her other hand to cup Emily’s cheek so the girl had no choice but to look her in the eye before finally letting her go, “I told you that you could do it.”

Misty had come to stand beside the pair, beaming smile unwavering. When one had been to hell and freed themselves from its grasp, it was impossible not to. 

“There’s not many people I can say have been to hell and back with me,” the swamp witch noted. She rested a hand on Emily’s arm for but a moment to show her appreciation, but finally let go. 

“I think you should thank Michael more than me,” Emily noted, finally pulling herself away from Cordelia’s grasp. The Supreme and the swamp witch shared a look. It was brief, but Emily could see their smiles falter ever slightly.

“Why don’t we get you girls some food,” Cordelia noted, putting a hand on Misty’s shoulder and easing her along, “You must be starving.”

“I could eat a horse,” Misty admitted.

It was easy enough to find a table. The kitchens were more than adequately supplied. Most of them weren’t hungry. Cordelia offered Emily some food, but she turned it away. Something about hell made food feel unpalatable for the time being. 

Misty insisted she sit right next to her, offering her a few fries now and again for good measure. The brunette took one just to ease the woman’s worrying. Cordelia sat on Misty’s other side, carefully attending to the woman as the others spoke around her.

For the first time, Emily was able to understand the world of the witches. Around the table they went, sharing their stories since the last Seven Wonders. 

In terms of history, Cordelia had only recently become Supreme. Her reign was short in comparison to those that came before her. They didn’t stay on that topic for very long.

Madison herself was also newly resurrected by the boy-wonder. Hell seemed to be catered towards the individual. Though, Emily would argue customer service to be anyone’s hell. Michael had brought the former starlet back around the same time Emily arrived at the Robichaux Academy. 

“If Michael already proved he could both perform and conquer Decensum, why would he have to repeat the task again?” Emily asked.

“Bureaucracy, darling,” Myrtle responded, earning a strained smile from Cordelia. That topic was also brushed over. 

Queenie had gotten herself tickets for _The Price is Right_ on the courtesy of her Supreme. A wasted effort, she noted, as she had been killed before she could attend the showing. Ghosts were hard to tell from real people, it seemed, and had a natural defense against witchcraft. Cordelia had tried to save her, but it was ultimately Michael that pulled her back into the world of the living.

“Bet March wasn’t too happy about that,” Misty noted.

Queenie only scoffed, “After beating him at cards 56,433 times, I think he was glad to have me gone.”

“You kept count?” Madison asked, all but rolling her eyes. 

“Wasn’t much to do.” Queenie said, “I’d of much rather been stocking shelves and hunting for _personal massagers_.”

Emily’s train of thought wandered as the two bickered, her mind replaying the void of eternity and the voice. She made a note to meticulously go through every dream she had ever written down.

_ “She is my gift to you,”  _ the voice echoed in Emily’s mind. She shook her head to rid herself of it. 

“You alright, firefly?” Misty asked as Zoe joined in the debate at hand. 

“Just tired,” Emily said.

“When did you join this gaggle?”

Cordelia spoke before she could open her mouth, smiling at the pair. “Emily is one of our most recent additions.”

“Not that she can do much,” Madison noted.

“Girl,” Queenie said, “Why do you have to be like that?”

“ _What_? It’s _true_!”

“She killed one of those demons,” Misty noted, perplexed at the statements of her fellow sisters, “if they can die.”

The table went silent. Cordelia looked at Emily with a slight furrow to her brow, searching for an answer.

“Things are different in dreams,” Was all Emily could say.

A hum from Misty turned the uncomfortable conversation away from Emily, who spared the woman a thankful look. 

“I’m starving!” the swamp witch exclaimed, shoving another fry into her mouth, “They don’t serve solid food in hell.”

The clanging of the sliding doors made them all jump in their seats, gazes turning towards the sound. A woman stood there, searching the room for a moment. She smiled as she saw Misty.

“Is that…?” Emily asked, fumbling for words.

Misty leaned against Emily and squeezed her arm, grinning ear to ear, “That’s Stevie.”


End file.
